


Silence and the Soul

by sifshadowheart



Series: Champion of the Valar [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Crossover, Crossover Pairings, Grief/Mourning, Incomplete, M/M, Multi, Recovery, Soulmates
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-22
Updated: 2018-12-08
Packaged: 2019-02-05 08:01:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 21,635
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12790245
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sifshadowheart/pseuds/sifshadowheart
Summary: Grieving and alone, Harry had an unexpected visitor - with a most unexpected offer.  Slash with possible MpregIncomplete WIP that has been retconned into another story.





	1. In Shadows Deep

** Silence and the Soul **

**_A Harry Potter/Lord of the Rings Crossover_ **

_By Sif Shadowheart_

**_Warning!  This story contains Slash!_ **

Disclaimer:  Harry Potter and the Lord of the Rings belong to their owners, publishers, etc.  This is a fan-authored fiction with no monetary infringement intended.

_Author’s Note: The title of this story comes from Pablo Naruda’s quote: “I love you as all dark things are to be loved; in silence, between the shadow and the soul.”_

**Chapter One: In Shadows Deep**

Harry James Potter – Harry to most – stared out with unseeing eyes over the Irish Sea from his hotel room balcony.  Devastated to his bones by the dual blows dealt to his heart courtesy of the message carried by a Ministry owl in the cold words of one Percival Weasley.  He’d left the warm confines of what until now had been his sanctuary in the chaos following his most recent battle against the ever-growing Dark Forces.

December on the Isle of Man wasn’t exactly _balmy_.

But it had been peaceful, and heart-wound soothing – which was what he’d needed after fight after skirmish after battle against the evil that seemed to ever-bloom in some wizards’ – and witches’ – hearts.

Dead, the owl read.

They’re _all_ dead.

Ron.

Hermione.

The entire Weasley clan who had been gathered at the Burrow to celebrate Ginny’s engagement to Dean Thomas after nearly ten years of waffling.

Percy, ever the workaholic, had been held up by his job with the Department of International Cooperation, trying to finish negotiations over the location of the Quidditch World Cup five years hence.

But it was the final name on the shaky-grief-stricken hand of Percy that killed the small spark he’d managed to rekindle inside himself in the few weeks he’d been whiling away in seclusion.

Teddy.

Just the sound of his name sundered his carefully built walls around his deepening grief.

His Teddy, his little Moonlet.

Harry sucked in a harsh breath, filled with an impotent rage that threatened to eclipse his grief.

He hadn’t even a villain to hunt down and bring to justice – no.  _Someone_ , likely a moment of collusion between Harry’s boss and the head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement Gawain Robards and Percy, had kept him in total ignorance of the hate-filled crime until Harry’s own Auror forces had captured those responsible and the Wizengamot sentenced them to the Dementor’s Kiss.  Well.  At least it wasn’t the Veil.

Not _one_ of those bastards deserved a chance of going on to an afterlife so _easily_.

Harry wished he could say he was surprised over the unilateral decision that had been made _for_ him…but he wasn’t.

Not in the least little bit.

No, that was just par for the course for Harry, wasn’t it?

The Wizarding World had proven time and again that they can and will betray his trust, over and over and over again.  The reason – invariably – being “for his own good”, though every once and awhile it would be down to simple greed, jealousy or envy over the “illustrious” position Harry “enjoyed” in magical society as the Man Who Conquered or He-Who-Slays-Dark-Lords.  He believed his current body count of bona-fide “Dark Lords” was somewhere in the double digits as every asshole in Europe tried to fill Voldemort’s decaying shoes.

It always ended the same – whoever it was got caught out in their betrayal, hells sometimes they don’t even _realize_ that was what their actions were – and he got hurt.

After fucking _dying_ for these people you’d think that they’d back off a little and actually _trust him_ but this – keeping him from even _attending_ the funerals of his fucking _family_ – this proved that there was nothing he could _ever_ do to break free from the manipulations and being treated as little more than a figurehead, no matter how many times he’s proven himself one of the most dangerous Aurors alive.

He cursed under his breath.

His presence probably wouldn’t have changed the outcome of the hunt…but maybe it would have kept a few more rookie Aurors alive.

They’d never know…because he didn’t have the trust and _loyalty_ of his own Auror force.

How was he supposed to keep _leading_ them if they didn’t even trust him?

Swiping roughly at the tears that managed to seep out from under clenched-tight eyelids, Harry shuddered with bone-deep weariness.

He didn’t even know where to begin continuing on as a regular Auror after this, let alone their Head.  This latest… _situation_ had driven home something he’d already been fighting all his life.  As far as the Ministry was concerned, he was merely a figurehead.  Someone to point out to the new Aurors and say “he saved the world, so can you.”

Even Kingsley had been infected with the insanity after a dozen years as Minister of Magic.

With Ron, Hermione, and worst of all little _Teddy_ gone…there seemed little point to even _pretending_ at the game of Harry Potter: Head Auror anymore.

Everyone was gone, still he remained, cut off and sequestered from the only ones who might have managed to help pull him out of his own head and back into fighting the never-ending fight against the Dark.

His parents, now his friends.  His godson, but first his own godfather, and so many more without end.

All gone.

Though of them all, only Sirius was perhaps the wound that would never heal.

There was simply something…unfinished about the whole affair with the Department of Mysteries that still bothered and chafed at him – a wound that scabbed over but didn’t even begin to close, even after all this time.

“Come now, pup,” a voice called softly from the shadows.  “You can’t be cryin’ for an old dog like me, now can ya, Prongslet?”

Whirling, he gasped as the figure stepped out of the shadows, the weak winter sun shining brashly against raven’s-wing hair.

“ _Sirius?!”_

_…_

Lunging into his arms, he unbalanced them, sending them both crashing into the shaded wall beside the balcony doors.

“Shh, now.”  He comforted his godson as he began to sob, Harry’s tears soaking his plain black t-shirt.  Lifting one elegant, pale hand, he stroked Harry’s hair as he rested his chin on a wild-black-maned head, pulling him deeper into his embrace.  “Calm now, Prongslet.”  Sirius whispered, conscious of the time.  “We don’t have long and there’s much for me to tell you.”

Nearly whimpering Harry pressed his ear against a tattooed chest, reveling in the steady beat he heard there.

“You’re really gone,” Harry whispered, as all doubted created by a slow fall into a Veil was wiped away, titling his head back so he could look into piercing grey eyes and watch the light bounce off of the planes and hallows of his face – a face too smooth and young to be the result of anything but a long rest.  “Aren’t you?”

It was as much of a plea to be wrong as it was a question.

“Aye, pup.”  Sirius said, grieving for all that Harry’d been through and what had yet to pass.  His sweet little Prongslet, the apple of his eye.  He’d been through so much.  If ever there was a Champion deserving of peace and rest it was him.  But Siri didn’t get to make the rules and there are some that aren’t meant to be broken – even by an old Marauder like him.  Damn Dumbledore and his manipulations anyway, even more than old Tom and his fear of Death.  He’d known, even as he’d comforted his pup on his last walk, that there would be _consequences_ for what was to pass.  Only as ever it wouldn’t be the truly deserving who would have to deal with them.  Not old Snake-Face or Twinkle-eyed bastard. 

It was his pup. 

All of them had argued the case with the, well, _powers_ until they’d been exhausted.  Him, Remus, James, Lily, not to mention all of the true friends Harry had lost.  They all had sought any outcome besides the one that originally awaiting his Prongslet.

Eventually…one was offered.

But it came with a hefty price tag and only upon the intervention of a different set of _powers_ than those in charge of their universe.  Powers called the Valar that have a soft spot for Champions and heroes.  Like Harry.

“I’m well and truly gone.”

Sighing, Harry steeled himself while snuggling deeper into wiry, comforting arms.

“What’s the what, then?”  He asked knowing that the only way Siri could be here like this is as a messenger from Death or whatever deity had taken an interest in him _now_.

“When you came back to life thanks to old Dumbles’s elaborate fucking manipulations you did more than upset the Balance that you’d righted by your death in the first place.  You broke some big fucking rules – as did Albus for plotting and piloting the whole thing.  There’s always…”

“Consequences.”  Harry bit off, just shy of a snarl hiding his face in Siri’s old leather jacket.

“Exactly, pup.”  Sirius nodded.  “Unless I’m mistaken you’ve already figured out the _what_ of things if not the _whys_.”

“I can’t die anymore.”  Harry whispered, voice broken and eyes bleak.  “Can I?”

He’d taken a lot of wounds over the years, most notably a bullet to the chest from Vernon after the Dursleys crawled out of their safe house after the war, and a stab wound to the stomach from an irate Bellatrix before she died and yet…he lived.  The others who kept him “safe” and dumb in his isolated little bubble until they needed him never noticed but his scars – even the most famous of them – have slowly faded and disappeared as well.  Harry was willing to bet it was either down to the Hallows or his minor case of death for a time that had done it.

“No, Harry.”  Sirius brushed away his tears.  “You can’t.  Once a soul leaves Heaven – and make no mistake, Albus manipulating the setting or not, that’s exactly where you were – for whatever reason it can’t return.  Ander rather than sentence a Champion to damnation the powers…well, mostly Death…they cheated pup.  You can’t die, can’t be killed.  You’re eternal now, immortal as ever Tommy or Albus or Gellert had wished to be.  Truly immortal.  But…”

“I’m the only one.”  Harry turned, even as he stayed tucked in his godfather’s arms, staring out across the desolate sea once more.  Men all want to be immortal until they actually realize what that means.  To be alone, set apart, a _freak_ , forever.  “Alone, forever.”  He let his head thud back against Sirius’s chest.  “Fuck, Siri.  I’ll go crazy before the end of things, or will that not kill me either?”

“It wouldn’t.”  He answered his godson honestly, no matter how much it hurt, locking his arms around the small – too small – form.  Harry would drift, cut off from other life but completely aware.  And it would _not_ do.  Not for his Prongslet.  “This universe, this world, it wasn’t designed for one like you, pup.”

Harry rolled that around for a long moment.

 _This_ universe.

 _This_ world.

“There’s another that is.”  He looked up into sad grey eyes.  “Isn’t there?”

“Yeah, love.”  Sirius sighed.  “There is.  But it would mean saying goodbye to everyone and everything you know.  There’d be no more of these little chats, pup.  No seeing Neville and Luna’s lot grow and nurturing them.  No more sparring with Kingsley or arguing with Percy.  If you do this it’s a total disconnect.  Absolutely cut off from this place forever and hurled into another.  ‘m not allowed to tell you ‘bout that world.  Part of the deal is you going on faith.   But I _can_ tell you one thing.  They’ve a place there.   A place where a not-quite-human Champion might be welcome.  They call it the Undying Lands.”

“Might?”  Harry arched a brow, ignoring the not-quite-human bit for now, thinking it might only be a nod to his magic or the Hallows.

“Have to be deemed worthy, pup.”  Thunder cracked overhead and Sirius gave a wince.  He was a smidge too close to saying too much.  “By _them_.”

“You mean I have to fight someone else’s war all over again.”  Harry heaved a soul-weary sigh.  Af if winning the last one, and the one before that, and the one before that, going back to his infancy wasn’t enough.  Now because his one-time mentor set things up to tear him from his rest, his peaceful reward, he’s being made to choose between an eternity of loss and loneliness and the chance – however faint – of a new place of comfort and peace in some distant and strange world.

Sirius kept quiet, already knowing what his godson’s answer was going to be.  A fighter he was, and always had been.  A Black of the blood in all things.  At least he’d been allowed this last goodbye.

“And what about…”  Harry’s voice cracked.  “What about love?  Will I find that there as well?”

It was a rather pertinent question, given how no matter what he’d tried or who had made an attempt on his affections, Harry’s heart had remained untouched save by his chosen family.

Hermione…his breath caught even as his mind continued on.  Hermione had had the idea that Harry had been _meant_ for someone…but that for whatever reason had never met them.  Harry had been willing to go one further.  There was more than _one_ meaning of equals after all.

And gods knew…there had never been anyone more like him – or more likely to understand him – than Tom.

Too bad he’d been corrupted, and his soul ruptured, before Harry’s father had even been a twinkle in Grandfather Charlus’s eye.

Sirius didn’t hesitate, not even for a second.

“A heart as big and loving as yours, pup?”  Sirius gave his godson a big doggy grin, near to blinding in its brilliance.  “I don’t doubt it in the least.  The next bird – or bloke – might even be worth of such a priceless gift, not like little starry-eyed Ginny or noseless Tommy-boy.”

Harry winced.

“You knew about that?”

“He was a handsome bastard, I’ll give him that.”  Sirius said neatly.  “It wasn’t a surprise after hearing about your second year that you had a bit of a crush on him – gods know enough people did over the years – and if you’re worried about a bad reaction to being bent…well.”  Sirius rolled his eyes with a sheepish grin.  “My hypocrisy doesn’t stretch _quite_ that far.”

“At least I won’t have any hard acts to follow.”  Harry sighed, thinking of his non-existent love life and pushing down his grief for a moment.  “In this new place.”

“You’ll go then?”  Sirius clarified, happy for him but sad for their former world all the same.  It would be a much darker, drearier place without his Prongslet, that was for certain.

“Was there ever a doubt that I wouldn’t?”

They laughed together, then with a crack of light they both disappeared.

…

Harry felt his head spin and his stomach churn as the whiplash of shifting through time and space rocketed through his body.  It was similar to the disorientation he’d felt the first time he took a Portkey or was Side-Along Apparated…but much, much worse.  His eyes eventually cleared after the spinning stopped and his stomach settled…only instead of finding himself in his “new world” he was standing in a long-gone piece of his first one.  A piece that he would’ve been thankful to never see again.

He was in the Riddle Manor in Little Hangleton, in the massive front room that he’d raided after the end of the Second Blood War, complete with a statue of a knock-off Michaelangelo staring down at him.

Two things were different from his memories, however.

One being the strong arms that still held him tight as Sirius traveled with him, and the cowl-cloaked dark figure that leaned nonchalantly against the towering statue that had been destroyed when detection spells had revealed it to hide a cache of Dark magical artifacts.

“Hey kid.”  Death said with a grin, beaming down at the unsurprised form of Harry with a macabre grin.  “You’ve done good.”

“What are we doing here?”  He asked with a sigh, rolling his eyes for good measure at the apparent approval of his choices.

“Thought a familiar place would be better than – well – _nothing_ , to explain the way this is going to work.”  Death said with a shrug.  “It was either this or King’s Cross…and I think you’ve had enough of the latter.”  The apparition nodded at Harry’s companion.  “Sirius.”

Sighing himself, the dark-haired Marauder turned his godson to face him then cradled his face in his hands, placing a tender kiss upon his brow.

“Time for me to go, pup.”  He said with regret.  He wished fleetingly for more time but knew that no measure of time granted him would be enough with his pup.  “Now listen to me, you dozy git.”  He said with a teasing smirk.  “Don’t go mourning me or your parents or even the Great Prat himself.  Not even wee Teddy.  Those of us that’ve gone on are together and those that haven’t are sure to join us, you hear me pup?  Remember what you were told once pup?”

“The next great adventure.”  He whispered brokenly.

“Yeah, Harry.”  He captured him in a rib-crushing hug, determined to make his godson feel all of the things he didn’t have time to tell him.  “All that and more, I promise.”

Sirius gave him one last kiss to his hair, as gentle as a butterfly’s wing, and cast Death a cautioning look, commanding the entity to take damn good care of his pup while he’s in the being’s charge.

“I love you, Prongslet.”  Sirius gently stroked his cheek, wiping away a stray tear, before releasing him and stepping away.  “All of us do – and we always will.”

“I love you too, Padfoot.”  His eyes drowning in tears were the last thing Sirius saw as a portal opened and he cast one last brilliant smile over his shoulder before stepping through.

“I know you do, pup.”  His voice echoed around him as Sirius’s form disappeared from his sight – this time forever.  “I know you do.  I’ll give your best to Prongs and the rest, yeah?”

…

Bracing himself, Harry took a deep breath and turned once more to face Death.

“Lay it on me.”  He said, squaring his shoulders and donning the “Head Auror/Hero of the Wizarding World” person, melding it into his “Harry” act and the “Freak” he’d always been until he was finally united.  Wherever he was going, he was done hiding who he was – all of who he was.  Tired to the bone of hiding his power and intelligence so others didn’t feel threatened, shoving it all done behind his affable – but brave – shield.  The time for Harry the Golden Gryffindor was gone.  Freak was an extraordinary boy being punished by a mundane world.  Hadrian, Lord Potter-Black was still too heavy for him…hmm.  Maybe not.  It was a name for a leader and a general after all, both things he’d been for however short a time.

Death watched the change come over his charge in blatant approval.  He believed this new start and new world was just what the deity ordered.  He was needed there.  As for everything else…well.  He wouldn’t be making any bets with Sirius or James, that’s for sure.  Harry had a habit of defying all odds, predictions, and prophecies.

“The world you’ll be going to will be rather medieval to your eyes – even from a wizarding world perspective.  They’ve no use or need for technology there, and it’s populated by many different sentient species with various lands and customs.  You’ll be able to speak the three major tongues because the powers of this world can’t predict who you’ll meet first or where you’ll end up.  We’ve ceded control of things involving you to the Valar.”

And Death had had one hell of a fight on his hands to push it through.

Fate had _not_ wanted to let go of her favorite toy, and it was only through Magic’s intervention that Death had succeeded in the end.

Magic had always had a soft spot for Harry, not unlike Death itself.

“Valar?”

“Like myself and the other powers that rule this world but very different at the same time.”  Death explained with the patience gained of watching countless worlds wax and wane.  “They rarely interfere, allowing free will to truly shape their world.  If it wasn’t for your feats being so significant they likely wouldn’t stayed out of _these_ events as well.”  Death gave him a ghost of a smile.  “But they love Champions and you,” Death shook its head in mock amazement.  “You’re the best this world has seen in millennia.”

Harry barked a laugh at that, thinking of what those “feats” cost in terms of sacrifice and blood spilled and hearts broken – both his own and that of others.

“The gist is you’re being sent where you’re most needed.  Just watch yourself and trust your instincts and you should do fine.”  Death continued, ignoring any attempts at interruptions.  “There’s a couple things you can take with you.  Close your eyes and think of what clothes you’d like to wear, keeping in mind that you’ll probably be traveling on foot.  Think…hunting.”  Death tried to guide him as best he could without breaking the agreement between himself and the Valar.

Following the deity’s instructions, Harry chose with care starting from the skin out.  Soft – and warm – thermal silk underwear and undershirt.  Leather pants that laced up instead of having a zipper in tight-but-flexible matte black.  Keeping Death’s words of a _medieval_ society in mind, he chose a tight-woven Acromantula silk and unicorn hair tunic that was unfathomably soft but warm and nearly puncture-proof tunic to hide his goblin-forged steel chain mail shirt, with a dragonhide leather vest over that and a long matching dragonhide leather duster over that, both pieces made of inky-black Horntail hide giving him several layers of both warmth and protection.  Flat-heeled dragonhide boots laced up with laces made of dragon heart strings – unbreakable and would never wear out – and cover his knees to protect the joint from damage.

Before his eyes could open, he felt the air stir around him as silk and leather replaced his soft cotton casual wear, forming out from nothing but magic and his own will.

Death cracked another smile, pleased that the abnormally-headstrong man took his warning to heart.  With a gesture Death conjured a small metal-bound booklet the size of one of Harry’s hands.  Handing it over, the deity explained as he opened it and started to flip through the pages.

“A few spells and mementos you’ll be needing.”  Was all the deity said as he cast the being a curious glance.  “Your powers can help or hinder as you well know, not to mention your heritage.  Be very careful.  That book should explain and help guide you.  You should at least skim it while I finish preparations, before we leave this place.”

Harry nodded idly, splitting his attention between the script before him and the deity.

“You’re going with weapons – and you’re going to need them.  And your clothes, boots, and chain mail undershirt have all been bespelled to stay clean and durable.  It would take a magic blade like your Sword of Gryffindor to mar them, your own personal form of armor.”

Harry grinned at that news, no laundromats in his future, not that any likely existed in a medieval world…so no scrubbing clothes in a cold creek or lake.  He arched a brow as he understood what he was reading.  Well…that was unexpected…

“The Sword is another thing.”  Death’s serious tone drew his full attention.  “You are the Heir of Gryffindor, though it was hidden from you in your life here.  Your courage and your bloodline drew it from its rest and with you it belongs.  But there’s no Death Eaters where you’re going, no need for a wand – a tool that would set you apart from others there.  You have a few choices.  I can bond the Elder Wand to you, giving you a true form of wandless magic, or I can bind it into the Sword or a staff.  It’s up to you.”

Harry thought on that a long moment.

It was tempting – to say the least – to have it bound to his person.  But part of him regretted that two great weapons were going to be removed from his home.  Another part, the rebellious core of him that drove him to spurn both Tom’s offer of joining his cause and Scrimgeour’s of being a poster-boy rejoiced that his favored weapons – now at least – were going to remain in his hands.

Harry had never used a staff before – so that was out – and he’d never really picked up wandless magic well.

That really only left him with one option.

“The Sword.”  He decided at last.  After all, one of his most deadly fights hadn’t been fought with wand or magic at all…but with the Sword of Gryffindor, against an ancient basilisk.

Death snapped his bony fingers and a sheath appeared on his hip – dragonhide leather to match both his pants, boots, vest, and duster, finely wrought with a silver mark of the Hallows – the same sign that now graced the pommel of the sword the sheathe held replacing the gaudy gold lion’s head and rubies with the smooth understated gleam of silver.

Tucking the book away in one of the duster’s pockets, he removed the sword, studying the deadly poisoned blade with a keen warrior’s eye.

Nothing else had been changed, the blade still the gleaming silver of goblin steel with the barest-there tint of venom-green from the basilisk’s venom sacks.  Words were engraved in a strange script on either side of the blade – words that neither Harry nor anyone he knew had ever been able to decipher.  If felt like _his_ , the same as his wands always had, but more… _his_ all at the same time.

“Why the Hallows symbol and what does it say?”  He couldn’t help but ask.

“To remind you of who you were.”  Death murmured, one hand gesturing to the pommel, and then to the words.  “The other of who you are.  The essence of you.  Your words.  You should be able to read them once you’ve reached your destination.”

Rolling their eyes, Death asked two more questions.

“Bow or crossbow, and where do you want your daggers and quiver?”

“Crossbow.”  Harry said immediately.  He’d never gained enough height to make a longbow plausible and a compound bow would stick out – to say the least – in an _olde world_ setting.  “Daggers left thigh and small of my back, quiver center back, crossbow holstered at my hip opposite the sword.”

He resheathed the beautiful weapon as others appeared on his body according to his instructions.  He smiled at the familiar and comforting weight, having gotten used to more “muggle” means over the years.  A warrior at heart.

“That’s all I can do for you, Harry.”  Death said, regret coloring their tone.  Breaking character Death gave him a genuine, soft smile before bowing with a flourish.  “You are a true Champion Hadrian James Potter, Lord of Houses Potter and Black.”  He said rising from his bow.  “It has been an honor and a privilege to have known you my dear.”

Gracing Death with a regal nod, Harry stepped through into the swirling vortex that had appeared, and into his new lift, a whimsical thought crossing his mind as the portal closed around him.

“I wonder if they’ll have chocolate…?”

…

Joining Harry’s departed loved ones, Death studied those assembled – the gathered number would have no doubt shocked the humble warrior.  Some like Cedric were those he couldn’t save, no matter how hard he tried.  Others that he _did_ save only to die by other means –  Mad-Eye among them.  Still others that were much closer and dear to him over these last years like Teddy.

And then there were the pains in Death’s ass.

Severus, the Twins, the Potters, Sirius, Remus, Tonks and others made up a ring and neatly boxed Death in.

“Well,” they demanded.  “How did it go?”

“He took it better than I expected.”  Death said honestly.  Part of the deity was entertained by the almost petulant look on James Potter’s – and shockingly Severus Snape’s – face over Sirius getting to see him instead of others like his parents.  Catching the questioning look on Fred Weasley’s face, Death grinned knowing what was on his mind.  “Severus wins the bet about the Wand.  He chose to meld it into the Sword.  Anyone who bet on a crossbow over a longbow wins as well.”

Once word of Harry’s possible future made the rounds, many that had known him placed bets of all kinds.  If he would even go and what weapons he would choose being the most popular.

“How did you know?”  Lily asked her first friend as the snarky former Potions Master pocketed his winnings.

“Know the brat, don’t I?”  Severus arched a sardonic brow.  “I’ve spent more than enough time in that messy-haired head to know how he thinks.  He defeated a _basilisk_ of all things with that Sword, then Longbottom used it to off Nagini.  One of the hardest battles Potter ever faced.  He likes to be reminded of hard lessons, it keeps him from making the same mistakes _twice_ …which is also why even with his new status the scar from Umbridge’s quill has never faded.”

“And the crossbow?”  Tonks asked James, Remus, Sirius, Teddy, and Severus, the only ones to bet on that over a bow – save Lily who abstained from betting on her baby at all.

They traded a glance before Sirius and James gestured for Teddy to explain.

“I almost died from a poisoned arrow shot by a were-hunter.”  The pre-teen explained with a shrug.  Several of the other newly-dead like the majority of the Weasleys were missing, all still reconciling themselves to being, well, _dead_.  “He never used a bow after that.”

“He didn’t.”  Hermione spoke up for the first time.  “Couldn’t even take looking at them at the Auror armory from what Ron told me.  Some wounds never quite heal, do they?”

Death interrupted the Q&A session before it could continue.

Turning to the gathered group, Death settled into a soft chair with a sigh, knowing this was going to take a while.

“Settle down, kiddos,” they joked.  “And let Death tell you all about Harry and what choices he made before leaving for his new home…”

…

 


	2. Weathertop

** Silence and the Soul **

**Chapter Two: Weathertop**

Elrond, Lord of Rivendell, found himself in a strange place as his sleep carried him into a vision.  Strange things and dark omens have come to pass and he sought for a way to help this land before the sea-yearning made him seek the Undying Lands.

“Weathertop.”  A melodious voice spoke at his back.  A familiar and most welcome voice.  “Or the forest _near_ Weathertop to be most precise.”

Turning he bowed with courtly grace towards the Lady of Lothlorien…and his mother-in-law.

“Lady Galadriel.”  Lord Elrond greeted her with honest pleasure.

A glow broke through the dark woods, turning him at once from pleasantries.  Whatever omen this was, it must be serious indeed to warrant both the Lord of Rivendell and the Lady of Lothlorien as witnesses.  The glow became a vibrant, pulsing circle, taller than an elf and thrice as wide in a deep gold with threads of silver and red twining throughout.  For a long moment it seemed to him as if all of Middle-Earth paused and waited with bated breath to see what strange happening this even stranger magic heralded.  At last the circle parted and a slight creature stepped forth into their world.

Elrond gasped as he took it in – befuddled for a moment by it’s beauty before settling back in certainty – this being was a male, without a doubt for all its lithe grace and beauty.

“What is he, do you wager?”  He asked the elder elf as the creature took in his surroundings with watchful eyes before loping off at a gait far fleeter and more graceful than any Man he’d ever met, even those of the Numenor who were blessed with grace and long-life from their elven ancestor.

Galadriel met his puzzled gaze with good humor, as the vision shifted around them.

“I am unsure.”  Her voice was nearly a laugh.  “But perhaps if we are patient we might be shown.”

Shown they were.

Elrond and Galadriel watched in silent contemplation as the scene around them shifted backwards if they were right, showing first the male bidding farewell to a handsome Man that shared features with him – but not enough to be his father or brother, a cousin perchance? – before biding a time with a hooded figure, his clothes and weapons changing and a gift appearing before entering the portal that brought him to Middle-Earth.  They saw as he fought battle after battle with both arms and magic against other creatures like himself that were nearly Men or strange creatures the likes of which neither elf had ever seen, the man-like creature often wounded or taking losses.  Elrond watched in disbelief and Galadriel in compassion as he gave his own life to save his world – and his return to life with its disastrous personal consequences.

They jumped all throughout his history, were shown many things.  Ending at last with the single defining moment of his life – killing his soul-brother to save his world.

“That poor child.”  Galadriel murmured.  “So much pain in such a short life.”

Elrond nodded, thinking quickly.

“He is a warrior – of that there is no doubt – one with great skill and power.  He would be a valuable ally against Sauron.”

His mother-in-law chided him with a glance.

“He deserves the peace long denied him.”  She said firmly, still aghast that such a warrior would forfeit – however unknowingly – the reward of all good Men.

Elrond gave her a speaking glance, having been equally – though differently – effected by the young warrior.

“We shall see.”  He said as the vision began to fade.  “Whatever his path, it is up to _him_ to choose it now.  We can only help him on his way.”

…

Harry stepped into the portal, allowing it to close around him as if he was submerging himself in a warm bath.  If any doubts about the path he’d chosen remained, they were dispelled by the essence of the portal’s magics.

It felt like coming home, entering Hogwarts for the very first time.

This new world he was joining was where he was truly meant to be.

But it wasn’t perfect.

Stepping out onto the forest floor, he sensed magical all around him as he studied what he could see in the darkness of the night.  There seemed to be a pocket of dense magics off to his left but before he could investigate further his senses tingled, as he felt evil – strong evil – heading towards him.  Setting his jaw, he determined to meet it head-on whatever it was, and ran to intercept it at full, magic-enhanced speed.  He wasn’t _quite_ sure what Sirius and Death had been alluding to – his _otherness_ – but now wasn’t the time to stop and figure it out even as he felt himself moving at speeds faster than normal.

His senses – and magic – led him to a ruin not too far from where he’d stepped from the portal, and what appeared to be children – but not? – fighting shadows that reminding him far too much of Dementors.

Drawing his sword, he charged in, closing in on the huddled form the shadow creatures had surrounded.

“Well now, that doesn’t seem fair.”  He tsked, then shot off a _Patronus_ , scattering them – for a moment.  While Prongs chased several off – and even seemed to be doing them damage – the rest focused their attention and attacks on him.  All but one that dodged Prongs and drove his blade into something or someone he couldn’t quite make out even with the bright glow of Prongs lighting up the night.

Blocking another thrust from one of his opponents, he kicked out sending it stumbling into the stab-happy shadow.  Grinning – hey at least they’re corporeal – he swung his sword in a smooth arc that connected.

The shadow-creature he wounded gave a piercing, horrible shriek that nearly drove him to his knees in agony, his Animagus-sharp senses not handling the scream well.

Before the not-Dementors could take advantage of his distraction – Prongs fading as the spell wavered – a man appeared waving a burning torch.  The creatures fled, clearly afraid of the flame which he filed away for future use.

Not-Dementors don’t like fire anymore than his former-world’s counterparts did.  Check.

A low moan snagged his attention away from the fire-wielding man as the object of the attack became clear in the firelight.  A child-like person huddled on the ground, pressing one hand to his shoulder.

“Frodo!”  The man rushed to the kid’s – Frodo’s – side, barely sparing a glance for the stranger who helped protect them all from the Ringwraiths.

Harry shrugged it off, glancing down at the inky blood coating his blade from where he’d made contact.  Not human then.  One question answered at least.  Unless humans here had black blood.  Murmuring a _Scourgify_ under his breath, he cleaned his blade then sheathed it as he walked over to the people he’d helped, the man and the not-kid? Who’d been joined by the other three not-kids whose facial hair said adult even as their height said otherwise…not to mention their _feet_ which were not-human at all, despite the general similarities.

Listening for a moment he cocked his head, trying out his new-fangled language abilities.

 _Common tongue_ , whispered through his mind.

“He was stabbed.”  He offered the man – Strider the others called him.  “The others engaged me or were driven off by my spell, but one – the leader if I had to guess – was focused solely on your little friend there.”

The other three puffed up at being deemed “little” by a man that wasn’t too much taller than they were, even as Strider waved it off and focused on what was important – Frodo.

“It was a Morgul-blade.”  Aragorn answered the stranger without looking up.  “He needs treatment.”

“Can you help him, Strider?”  One of the others – Sam, Harry heard him called by one of the others – asked.

“This is beyond me.”  Aragorn shook his head.  “I can slow it down but he needs to reach Rivendell and fast or the poison will take him.  Sam will you help me gather some herbs?”

Sam quickly agreed and was sent off as Strider at last met Harry’s watchful gaze.

“Will you look after them?”  He was cautious of this newcomer with his many weapons and his easy speech of spellwork, but his instincts were nearly shouting that he could be trusted.  For now at least.

“Of course.”  Harry agreed at once, crouching beside Frodo’s shivering form.  Reaching into his duster pocket he retrieved the book from Death.  He knew he saw a potion that might help.  At least a little.  Scanning it quickly he found what he was looking for.

This was more than a scratch.

It needs more than a _Tergeo_ to clean it or an _Episkey_ to heal it.

Looking up he saw the other two watching him in pure fascination and Frodo in pure worry.

“Hello,” he smiled.  “Could you bring me a cup do you think?  And some water?”

“Of course.”  Merry sprang to his feet as Pippin answered for him and introduced them.  “I’m Pippin and that’s Merry.  Thank you for your help…?”

Both Hobbits were instantly a bit smitten by his bright smile as he accepted the waterskin and cup from Merry, setting them down beside some pouches he’d taken from an inner pocket.  Death had snuck a thing to two into his possession that he hadn’t asked for…but was glad of having all the same.

“Hadrian Potter-Black.”  He said.  “But you can call me Harry.”

As Merry and Pippin murmured their responses, Harry quickly ground a bezoar, adding the powder to the water then a pinch of mixed healing herbs plus a pinch each of Echinacea for power, mandrake for dispelling evil and protection, lastly mookshood for redirecting enemies.  Talking fast to distract them from his work with his pleasant patter, he carefully pricked his finger, adding a drop of his blood to the mixture as he asked them about the shadow-creatures.

Listening with care as they explained – speaking often in tandem as a pair of twins he once knew had – about ring-wraiths and Nazgul, all of which made him very happy to have wounded at least one, Harry added seven clockwise stirs followed by a single widdershins then whispered the words to activate the blood-magic he’d infused the potion with: “By my blood, be healed.”

Still listening to the not-kids with hair feet – he really needed to find out what they’re called before he goes crazy – he watched as the potion hissed and turned bright blue.  Perfect.  Now here was hoping the book was right – along with the potion-making abilities he’d cobbled together over twenty years of living in the wizarding world.

“Merry, Pippin,” he stopped them mid-ramble, feeling a twinge for the twins that he banished at once.  “Help me sit him up so he can drink.”

Together the three of them manage to get a few mouthfuls of his concoction into the feverish Frodo.  Laying him back down, Harry followed the potion with a quiet _Tergeo_ and an _Episkey_ but wasn’t surprised when the effects were minimal.  Glancing at the mostly-full cup and the still-ugly wound, he shrugged.  Better than nothing.  Lifting the makeshift bandage over the wound, he frowned even as he sensed the evil coming from it.

 _Poisoned, right_.  He rolled his eyes at the thought.  That was an understatement if there ever was one.

An urge struck him, causing him to act before Sam and Strider made it back – he could hear them coming for all that they were taking care otherwise.  Tipping the cup he spilled most of the remaining potion over the nasty wound, watching in fascination – magic never got old – as the wound hissed and steamed before showing noticeable improvement.  Altogether, it wasn’t healed – not yet – but his actions and magic had helped, even if he could still sense evil from the wound.  And oddly enough, from Frodo’s pocket of all things.

He must be carrying around a magical artefact of some kind…perhaps even the reason behind the attack in the first place.

“How is he?”  Aragorn asked as he returned, herbs in hand.

Sam moved to his friend’s side at once after handing over his bounty to Strider.

“Better.”  Harry answered to Strider’s obvious shock.  “But it won’t last long.  He needs more care than I can give.”

“It was amazin’ Strider!”  Pippin burst out, unable to contain himself any longer, joined at once at Merry.  “Harry knows magic, _real_ magic like Gandalf!  An’ he made a potion and everything!”

Aragorn studied the wound carefully, covering it with the proper herbs and leaves before raising his gaze to this green-eyed stranger, listening all the while to the tale being spun by the Hobbits.

“First he looked in 'is little book…”  Merry continued the story.

“Then he took out some pouches from his coat.”  Pippin took his turn.

“Took and pinch of this and a pinch of that…”

“Added some water…”

“Said some words in a weird tongue…”

“Then asked us to help Frodo sit up.”

“He drank some of Harry’s tonic…”

“Then Harry did some magic over the wound.”

“Harry poured the rest of the tonic on the wound when the magic didn’t work.”

“It hissed!”

“Then it really looked better.”

“And you came back!”  They finished together.

Exhausted by their tale, Samwise sat wearily beside Mr. Frodo, unsure of what to think of all this.

Harry fielded Strider’s measuring look with good grace, handing him the cup with the remaining potion before climbing gracefully to his feet.

“It’s just something to help.  I promise.”  He said absently as he cocked his head to one side.  He could hear hoofbeats heading rapidly their way but sensed no evil.

Aragorn sniffed cautiously at the concoction, bringing to mind all of his foster-father Elrond’s words about healing before drinking it down in one go.  By the color it was clearly magical and he smelled rosemary, chamomile, and rue among other herbs – none harmful.  He tasted even more along with something else he couldn’t identify.  As he worked over Frodo’s weak form, he felt some of his weariness dissipate and a resurgence of energy.  Whatever _Harry_ had used in the tonic it was rather powerful.  He must remember to tell Elrond of it.

Harry drew his gaze anew as he lifted his crossbow from its place on his hip and loaded it with a motion nearly too quick for Aragorn to see.  Whoever he was, he wasn’t quite from the race of Men.  Perhaps a half-elf.  It would explain his nearly-feminine beauty and grace, if not his presence on Weathertop.

“What is it, Harry?”  He asked, rising to his feet.

“A horse.”  Was the other’s reply, without taking his watchful eyes from the direction of the coming threat.  “Coming in fast and smooth, _Strider._ ”  Harry knew that using his given-name without permission was an oblique clue about “Strider’s” station.

No common man would address someone with a Lord’s sword and silken tunic so familiarly.

“My name is Aragorn, son of Arathorn.”  Aragorn answered the wordless rebuke as the horse and rider came into view.

“Pleasure, I’m sure.”

“I’m Samwise Gamgee.”  The biggest not-kid piped up.  “And this is Mr. Frodo Baggins, Mr. Harry.”

“It’s Hadrian Potter-Black, if you must, Mr. Gamgee.”  Harry corrected.  “I simply _prefer_ to be called just Harry.”

Suddenly into view came a white horse, gleaming in the shadows, running swiftly.  In the dusk its headstall flickered and flashed, as if it were studded with gems like living stars.  The rider’s cloak streamed behind him, and his hood was thrown back; his golden hair flowed shimmering in the wind of his speed…it appeared that white light was shining through the form and raiment of the rider, as if through a thin veil.

“Lord Glorfindal.”  Aragorn said in greeting to the Elvish lord as he gestured to Harry to lower his weapon.  A signal he obeyed to Aragorn’s vague surprise, his ever-watchful green gaze drinking in the appearance of horse and rider.

 _Wow_.  Was all Harry could think.   _I need to get myself one of those…_

Distracted by his wandering – and rather lustful – thoughts, he missed much of the conversation between the two although two things stuck out.  The not-kids were called “hobbits” and they were speaking in another language called _Quenya_ , a form of Elvish.

Which along with the too-beautiful too-perfect looks and pointed ears made Mr. Gorgeous Lord Glorfindal a high elf.  Death really wasn’t kidding when they said many different peoples populate this new world.  So far that makes four distinct species, what was next, dwarves?

“Lord Hadrian.”  Aragorn demanded his attention – and showed just how much note the other man had taken of him, likely spying the heavy lordship rings on his middle and fourth finger of his right hand.

“Yes, Aragorn?”  He asked sweetly, put out by his use of “lord” when he knew full-well that he hadn’t introduced himself as much…and likely with reason.

“Glorfindal is taking Frodo on ahead, how long will your tonic hold out?”

“There’s no way to tell.”  He said honestly, moving to look up into Glorfinadal’s gorgeous face.  “It is meant to heal and ward off the evil that caused the wound but,” he gestured to the still-weak Frodo helplessly.  “I’ve never seen a wound like this before, let alone treated it.”  He spoke in Westron – or the Common tongue – not wanting to give himself away just yet.

“Any help is welcome against the Ringwraiths and the Nazgul, Lord Hadrian.”  Glorfindal said solemnly whilst on the inside he was alive with curiosity.  He could hardly wait to tell Lord Elrond of this strange not-quite-a-man who felt almost Elvish to him.  Aragorn was right, he wasn’t merely human.  But what _else_ this Harry/Hadrian Potter-Black was, that was the puzzle.

Setting aside the stranger and the mystery of him for the moment, Glorfindal took his leave of the party and galloped off into the night, hoping that he would reach Rivendell and Lord Elrond in time to save the brave little hobbit on the saddle before him.

…

Aragorn, Harry, and the remaining hobbits watched until the horse and its riders disappeared from view, with Harry keeping vigil longer still, until he could no longer sense them at all.

Turning back to the fire and the watching males, he gave an internal sigh.

Here came the inquisition.

“Tell us, Lo-Harry,” Aragorn corrected himself.  “How did you come to be out here, alone, this night?”

This stranger wasn’t one of his Rangers, nor was he an elf, and few others wandered Middle Earth alone.

“I was sent here.”  Harry answered as he sat beside the fire, holding out his hands to warm them as his companions all settled in and lit their pipes.  All except Sam who wore his worry plain on his face.

“Sent here?”  Pippin echoed, frowning.

“Yes,” he gave a smile, rueful smile.  “I was told I was being sent where I was needed most.  When I heard the Ringwraiths, I rushed to give aid.  You know the rest.”

“Except,” Aragorn pointed out drily.  “Who you are and from whence you came.”

The hobbits fell asleep as Aragorn and Harry studied each other for a long stretch of time across the fire.

Harry finally nodded in acknowledgement of Aragorn’s words, making ready to sleep – at least for a bit.  It’d been an exhausting series of events.  Hopefully the Nazgul and his own nightmares would refrain from disturbing his sleep…for once.

…

A faint “crack” of a twig breaking woke Harry from his sleep and he bolted up, dagger at the ready and a spell on his lips.  Awareness broke through his waking daze, as he saw the trio of hobbits all tucked up and still snoozing away.  Slipping his weapon back into its sheathe on his thigh, he rose to his feet and turned, spotting Aragorn watching him from his perch on the ruin wall, two halves of a twig in his hands.

The wizard arched a brow at the blatant tactic from the quiet ranger.  He was determined to find answers about Harry then.  A bit not good, as he’d prefer to keep his secrets close to the vest until he’d had time to learn the lay of the land first.

“Testing me, Aragorn?”  He asked, arching a brow.  His voice was raspy from sleep and rough with thirst.

When Aragorn failed to answer, Harry rummaged through his duster.  Finding herbs last night was a welcome surprise and now that his mind had a chance to reboot, he wondered what other gifts Death or Sirius or whoever else had managed to smuggled him in the depths of his new coat.  He had not even the slightest doubt that the little “extras” he was finding were gifts from his loved ones who had… _gone on_.  Though of them all, Sirius was the most likely to deal a card from the bottom of the deck, with maybe the Twins and Severus joining him.  Smiling in triumph, as he located a flask among pouches and other contraband, he studied it a bit before unscrewing the cap and taking a cautious sniff.

It was beaten silver with a monogramed “SOB” for Sirius Orion Black…and a gag gift from Harry’s father after Lily had enlightened them to the common muggle epithet.  What the flask contained was definitely magic, Mrs. Weasley’s cocoa, still as hot as the moment it was made.  With a smile at the flask and a mocking salute towards his audience, Harry drank deep, feeling peace and comfort flow through him at the familiar taste.

Aragorn studied the verdant-eyed creature as he went about his morning business.  With the sun close to rising the hobbits will soon need to be woken and his chance to watch this stranger gone until they make camp that night unless he was wrong regarding Harry’s intention to join them on the road to Rivendell.  Harry moved fluidly, like a dancer or an Elf, making him wish he had observed the other during last night’s skirmish.  His steps were silent, if Aragorn’s eyes weren’t upon him, he could have no notion of Harry’s presence.

But he wasn’t as calm and serene as his expression and manner would have Aragorn believe.  Aragorn had caught flashes of humor or temper in bright green eyes, and on that finely-etched face.  And Harry’s dreams were anything but restful.  Tossing and turning all throughout the night as he cried out both in pain and seeking others.  Strangely named others.

Sirius most often.  Then Teddy, and Ron, and Hermione.  Whoever he’d been separated from, he missed them dreadfully.

It gave Aragorn hope.

On a journey such as this, having a stranger along would normally only lead to disaster.  However, his dreams told Aragorn what Harry likely would not – whatever his cause, he knew how to love.  A person with people to love, no matter where they are, or if they were living or not as Harry’s dreams suggested, can be accorded at least a small measure of trust.

Besides all that, Harry _did_ assist Frodo out of no motivation Aragorn could discern beyond helping a stranger.

That was no small thing.

As Aragorn ruminated on the puzzle that was his newest companion, Harry returned from his ablutions in the forest, coming to lean upon the broken wall where Aragorn perched and looking up into storm-grey eyes, caution on his face.

“Where do you go from here?”  The displaced King of Gondor asked lowly as the sun peeked over the horizon, painting the ebony-haired creature in the colors of the sunrise.  He’d never met a man to match him for pure beauty among other Men.  Only the Elves in this would could claim to match him, such as his Arwen.

“With you,” Harry answered with a small smile.  “To Rivendell.  To you I was sent and with you I’ll stay.  If you would have me.”  He tacked on the last a moment late.

Allow it or not, Harry would just follow them anyway, something Aragorn seemed to sense as he gave a short nod.

“Your sword and your crossbow are most welcome.”  Aragorn allowed after a long moment.  Then he gave a wicked grin.  “With three hobbits left to shepherd, I will take whatever help I can get.”

Harry gave a soft laugh and rolled his expressive eyes – which thanks to a potion long before his arrival in Middle-Earth no longer required glasses – before turning to take the sleeping dynamos.  After seeing Merry and Pippin in action the night before, he was left in little doubt over what Aragorn meant.  He could only hope that Samwise had a better head on his shoulders than the terrible twosome.

…

The trail to Rivendell seemed to stretch on endlessly at time for Harry, giving him far too much time to think about everyone he’ll never see again now that he’d been set on this path.

Aragorn and himself had built up an easy routine and – dare he say – a partnership however cautious on both sides.  Together they split the night watches, allowing the hobbits to sleep in peace despite the funny little males’ worry for their absent friend Mr. Frodo.  Before the first day was done, Aragorn had good reason to be gladdened by Harry’s presence, as he had a keen eye and a steady hand for hunting that combined with his deft management of the hobbits – especially trouble-prone Pippin – made Aragorn silently rejoice in Harry’s company for that skill along.

Those first few days Harry watched everyone closely, trying to pick up the skills he lacked – and needed – in this new world.  Most of Aragorn’s skills he’d seen were similar to ones he’d used in his own world either to survive his childhood or the Horcrux hunt or to track and capture lawbreakers as an Auror: tracking, killing, watching over his less-lethal friends so they don’t get killed, the norm.  Although the _way_ Aragorn moved made Harry itch to fight him, like how he used to feel around Severus before he died or Bill Weasley later.  It was a much less contentious – and comfortable to deal with – interest in who was the better fighter than the resentment that tinged his relationship with Snape or the against-his-own-morals arousal he felt around Bill.

The hobbits on the other hand had all sorts of skills he might find himself in need of down the line.  From cleaning and skinning game (Sam) and even fishing (again, Sam), while Pippin and Merry were much more practiced foragers and scavengers than Harry’d had to be in a long time.  The funny pair were also excellent company and knew a surprising amount of the world around them for all that they had never left their home the Shire before getting caught up in Frodo and Sam’s adventure.  Over many a roasting spit did Harry learn about the make of his new home, from the hobbits of the Shire to tales of the Kingdoms of Men, and of Smaug the last dragon, or even of elves who spoke the “languages of kings” according to Merry.

All three of the hobbits would, now and again, ask him questions about himself and his life that he managed to evade and redirect easily enough, all under the too-knowing gaze of Aragorn.  The ranger obviously knew there’s more to him than what he’d shared but his biding his time and keeping his own council – likely until they made Rivendell – which suited Harry just fine.

He still wasn’t sure what purpose he was sent to find this group for.  There had to be more than helping with the Ringwraiths and tiding Frodo over until he could reach Rivendell.  The longer he spent here – in this strange new home of his – the more he sensed an almost pervasive unease.  Something underneath all the happy chatter and long gazes that wasn’t right.

It felt…

It felt like England had in those last months leading up to the Battle of Hogwarts.  Like whatever Big Bad they had here was gearing up for some sort of epic showdown.

And didn’t that just figure.

 _They’re called the Valar…have a soft spot for Champions_ …he remembered what he’d been told before being sent here as he caught sight of Aragorn watching him with cautious eyes as Harry helped Sam gather greens to go with their dinner of rabbit stew one night.  _A soft spot_?  He thought to himself with a sigh.  _More like a desire to try and stack the deck_.

Well, at least there was a fight coming.

For all his former desire to be “normal” and “just Harry” he’d long since come to terms with himself.

Kingsley was right about one thing in the end, one of the reasons he’d used to justify keeping Harry ignorant to the fate of his family until it was far too late to _do_ anything about it.  The other he got – the better – he stopped being so much an Auror and a hero.  In his hands, magic wasn’t just a gift, it was an art form, one he’d used and wielded with vengeance against anyone daring to break the peace of Wizarding Great Britian.  He’d become less law-keeper and more Death-Dealer.  Part of him was still surprised days after seeing the words on blade of his words that Deadly or maybe Violent or even Mad weren’t among them.

Instead they’re a testament etched in goblin steel of who he once was – and who after having everything else stripped away but his _self_ that he was trying to be again.

Honor.

Loyalty.

Courage.

Love.

Sacrifice.

Cunning.

Protection.

Of all the seven words it was the fifth that was the easiest and the hardest all at once to deal with.  Sacrifice.  Some moments it seemed like that was all he’d done since being born was give up one thing after another in the pursuit of some nebulous idea of a greater good.

His parents.  His life.  Sirius.  His childhood.  Remus.  Fred.  His ability to trust.  Ron.  His peace of mind that things were _finally_ changing for the better.  Hermione.  His sense of self.  Teddy.  His second family.  Countless innocents in a war that never ended were lost and allies dead.  Tonks.  Snape.  And on the list went.

Only one thing had he refused to give and in the end it was the one sacrifice he had to make in exchange for this chance at another life – the hope that he would see them all again one day.

Yeah, Harry understood sacrifice better than anyone ever should.

He understood honor, loyalty, and courage just as deeply if not as painfully.  They were three of his most annoying qualities according to Severus when he’d been alive.  It was why the man had trusted him to make one – supposedly last – sacrifice to save their world in that dingy shack on the edge of Hogsmede.  Harry’s honor could always be counted on.

And even he could admit that he was often loyal to the point of blind stupidity.

Courage, well, it takes balls to walk to your death and big brass ones to jump up and go back to fighting head-to-head against the wand that killed you after you came back to life.  Courage had never been his problem, not even at eleven when he was terrified to his toes of disappointing everyone who revered him so highly.  Courage enough to defy his own cunning and end up in Gryffindor.

Cunning was easy too.  Without it he never would’ve lived long enough under the Dursley’s tender loving _care_ to make it to Hogwarts, let alone what came after.

But love, and protection…those gave him some bad moments.

He’d never been in love, though he knew _familial_ love to a point that others perhaps never would due to his mother’s sacrifice and his own to protect all he loved.

Protection…

That was perhaps the worst of it for him.

For so long he’d been both sword and shield for his loved ones…only to fail them utterly in the end.

“Harry.”

Aragorn drew him from his thoughts with a quiet word.

He’d come to appreciate the stranger over the course of their journey to Rivendell, but something in his eyes when he would slip into his own thoughtful silences continued to give Aragorn pause.

Those were the eyes of a warrior who was already dead – they just didn’t know it yet.

No matter.

He would soon be a guest of Lord Elrond and if there was anyone who could solve the mystery of Harry of Potter-Black it would be the Elven Lord of Rivendell.

The object of Aragorn’s study turned his emerald-green eyes his way as they crested a hill, the hobbits breaking out into excited chatter.  Aragorn gave him a little smile as he motioned to the scene before them, the reason for his breaking her reverie.

“Look!”  Pippin cried.  “It’s Rivendell!”


	3. Of Elves and Rivendell

** Silence and the Soul **

_“Do not let your difficulties fill you with anxiety, after all it is only in the darkest nights that stars shine more brightly.”  
― [Hazrat Ali Ibn Abu-Talib A.S](https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/7275101.Hazrat_Ali_Ibn_Abu_Talib_A_S)_

**Chapter Three: Of Elves and Rivendell**

Aragorn and company were greeted at the gates to Rivendell by his twin foster brothers and their father Lord Elrond, the residents of the city having been informed of their coming both by Lord Glorfindel and the scouts posted all throughout the Rivendell wood.  The ranger had taken note of the watchers in the trees but never drew attention to them as they stayed carefully out of sight.  Although his watchful gaze upon _Harry_ often spotted his increased restlessness once they crossed into Lord Elrond’s territory and under the vigilance of the scouts in the trees.  Almost as if he knew they were being observed but kept silent for reasons of his own.

The ranger from the North couldn’t have been more right, if only he knew it or thought to ask.

Harry sensed them first.  The watchers in the trees.  They set off his instincts – but somehow in a good way that was nearly dichotomous to him sensing them _at all_ – like Glorfindel only not as strong of a signature or even Remus with the late-werewolf’s wild-but-protective aura.  Tripping his sensors to all things “other” but with a sensation of sunshine and wind through the trees instead of the knee-jerk aversion he had in varying degrees to creatures and beings that dwelled in the dark like Dementors – or their new cousins the ring-wraiths.

When he first saw one he came close to outing his spying them with a gasp.  Were all Elven-kind here so preternaturally beautiful?  On the heels of that thought came two others.  First, relief that his instincts were even _working_ in this strange world, he’d thought that he’d been picking up more Elves but since Glorfindel was the only one he’d seen thus far – or sensed for that matter – he hadn’t been certain.  Second, that Aragorn was not only _aware_ of their watchers but that he had a damn good idea of exactly where they were at all times, as it had been a flick of steel-grey eyes into the shadows of a towering tree that had given away the position of the first one Harry saw surrounding them.

Once he’d figured out from there their habits, and how they almost _melted_ into the forest…finding them hadn’t been nearly so hard for him and his abilities.

Another thing he’d picked up on during their foray into Elven lands was that Elves here must have senses far superior to both Men and hobbits based on how much distance they kept between themselves (the sentries) and the travelers.  Another was – knowingly or not – Aragorn had given away his _own_ superior abilities, a little extra “oomph” in the senses or instincts department based on him simply being able to _spot_ the sentries in the first place…well.  Either that _or_ that he knew the sentry patrol routes.  Though Harry wouldn’t rule out both with how familiar the ranger had been with Glorfindel.

As it was, Aragorn was always careful to keep the party moving onwards towards Rivendell…but within the range of at least _one_ Elvish sentry.

Part of Harry – the part that had led him along with Albus’s scheming into dark corridors chasing Stones – _ached_ to untangle the mystery that was Aragorn son of Arathorn.

But it was quickly overruled by the rest of him that wanted nothing more than to get away from him.

Aragorn was tall, dark, skilled at survival, complex, and both acted and moved like a fighter.  He was also wary, caring, and patient with the hobbits, and accorded respect by all those surrounding him in this strange new world.

None of which was good for Harry.

The last thing he needed was to find out anything more – good or bad – about the attractive and deadly man he’d been travelling with.

Nuh-uh.

No, thank you.

He left his home – what remained of it – for a shot at an immortal life surrounded by other like _him_.

Undying.

Immortal.

Not likely to make him _mourn_ , being the key.

Harry’d come to like Aragorn over the past days but that is _all_ he can allow himself.

No good could come from their associating beyond a mild friendliness or barest of companionship.

As they entered Rivendell and Harry clapped his eyes on the twin hunks of salty goodness that waited to greet them alongside a silver fox, he felt that _worry_ over Aragorn’s own desirability die down at least a little.  He was alone, in a new world, and apparently it was one populated by a race of superior hotness known as Elven kind.  There had to be at least one or two among them who liked their men to be on the more _human_ side instead of elven…right?

Right.

Mortal or immortal or just beyond hard to kill, if he’s going to get his heart besieged and possibly broken, he’d just settled on an Elf managing it.

With that thought firmly planted in his mind, Harry waited patiently as Aragorn introduced the hobbits to the extremely handsome twins – Elladan and Elrohir apparently – and their father Lord Elrond after greeting them – rather familiarly to Harry’s eyes – himself.  Once the three tired and perpetually hungry males were seen off by their assigned Elvish escorts, Aragorn turned at last to harry.  However, before he could introduce his more dangerous of companions, he found himself interrupted by none other than Lord Elrond himself.

All Aragorn and the twins could do was look on in shock as the Lord of Rivendell greeted this stranger with an out-of-character warmth before absconding with him.

“And this must be Lord Harry.”  Elrond took one of his strong hands, sandwiching it between his warm palms.  “I am most honored to have you as a guest in my house.  I am Elrond, Lord of Rivendell.  Come, come.”  He gave Harry a gentle smile.  “You must be tried from your journeys and we have much to discuss.”

Looking back over his shoulder with a quirked brow, he was treated to a trio of disbelieving looks and a helpless shrug of Aragorn’s shoulders as he was whisked away by the Lord of Rivendell.

“What in the stars was _that_?”  Aragorn wondered aloud as he watched the two of them disappear around the bend of the garden wall.

“I have no idea, brother.”  Elladan answered, clearly as mystified as Aragorn himself.  His twin content to stare after their father and his pretty guest.  “Father was interested in the man Lord Glorfindel said was travelling with you and asked him several questions, but nothing out of the ordinary for the Lord of the Last Homely House.”

Aragorn gave a _hmm_ under his breath before setting off for his quarters, speaking over his shoulder.

“I think you’ll find, brothers,” his voice was a near-laugh.  “That when it comes to Harry of Black, _ordinary_ is not a word that will be of much use to you.”

…

Elsewhere in Rivendell, Elrond had swiftly ushered a guarded Harry into his private study, a room bespelled against any would-be eavesdroppers.

“Please, sit.”  He said, gesturing his guest towards a chair as he moved over to his decanters along one wall.  “A drink perchance?  Before we speak?”

Feeling…comforted by his surroundings despite his wariness, Harry removed his dragonhide leather duster, folding it over one arm of the airy-but-strong chair before lowering himself into the first real piece of furniture he’d seen in over a week.

“Please,” he answered with a genuine note of pleasure, rolling his shoulders and neck with a sigh as his tension dropped a click.  Now safely arrived in Rivendell, he no longer had to worry about hobbits or Aragorn or any of his old _duties_ from his former home.  It was…freeing and wonderful…and vastly terrible all at the same time to have to worry about no one and nothing but himself.

And all the soul-killing loneliness that came with such a state.

In this new world, he had the choice to be nothing but indulgent in desires selfish to the utmost degree…and harm no one in doing so.

He mourned, yet.

If his lift has taught him anything it was that he always would.

Some wounds never heal.

Teddy would _always_ be one of them.

But they _did_ turn numb from time to time, only awakening in shy scattered moments to pierce through mind and heart and soul to draw fresh blood before returning once more to dormancy.

“Wine, water, or something else?”  Elrond asked as he poured a glass of win for himself of his favored vintage.

“Wine.”  Harry decided with a smile, eyes drawn by the rich red of Elrond’s first pour.

Casting an appraising eye at his honored guest, Elrond poured him a glass of deep winter’s wine, vivid with notes of spice and winter snows, handing it off as elegantly as he did everything else before settling himself in the chair at Harry’s side rather than behind his desk.  Harry gave him another of his quirked half-smiles at the tension-easing gesture, which bloomed into full-appreciation after the first taste of his drink.  After a long moment of companionable silence enjoying their drinks, Elrond began.

“First,” he said, watching his guest carefully for signs of distress.  “I feel it behooves me to inform you that I am aware of at least _some_ of the circumstances that have brought you to Middle-Earth…Vanquisher.”

Harry arched a sardonic ebon brow at the revival of one of the less-offensive nicknames he’d been “blessed” with over the course of his former life.  “Visions or a messenger from the Valar?”  He asked cannily.  “And what, _exactly_ , constitutes ‘some of the circumstances’ that led me here?”

“I have the gift of foresight.”  Elrond replied with an appeasing nod.  It wasn’t as if it was uncommon knowledge among many of Middle-Earth of the gifts of the Elvish Lords and Lady of the Woods.  “However, this was more of a waking dream.  I saw your entrance into this world.  I saw many moments from your past – though a great deal were difficult to fully understand as they lacked context.  Many things were shown to me that night, enough to know that I know a meager amount compared to the sum of your deeds…and your sorrows.”

Shaking his head at that, Harry gave a mirthless laugh as he set his empty glass aside.

“That’s visions for you.”  He commented with more than a little snark, eyeing his host.  He struggled with himself for another long moment before giving in with a heavy sigh.

He was going to have to trust _someone_ in this new world, and clearly the Valar had decided upon Lord Elrond if they were priming him before he ever arrived in his home.  Besides which…his magic actually _likes_ this one.  Even if he was as overly formal as Professor Snape on any given day.

“Where I’m from,” he started slowly.  “Is a place – a world and time – vastly different from this one.  There I served a simple – and yet complex – purpose as a child of prophecy.  It was made before I was even born to it – or for it.  And it marked my life in ways both tangible and otherwise.”  He shrugged.

It just… _was_.

“And it shaped me to the point that even _after_ it’s completion.”  Harry cocked his head, looking away at some vision only he could see.  “There was no hope of reclaiming who I _might_ have been.”

“You are a warrior.”  Elrond repeated his original impression for Harry’s benefit.

“I’ve been called that.”  Harry acknowledged with a dip of his head.  “I’ve been called many things.  Warrior, champion, killer, liar, hero.”  A bitter smile flashed and faded in a flicker.  “Even a Lord like yourself.  They’re all just titles.  Words.  I prefer just Harry.  Or peace-keeper, if you must.”

Elrond itched to disagree with the wounded warrior’s self-assessment but tabled it for the moment as something he said struck him.

“Lord?”

“Of the houses of Potter and Black.”  Harry elaborated.  “Old blood, old magic.”

“You’re a wizard?”

“Not as such.”  Harry frowned a bit.  “I’m not a Man as you would call them here.  Nor a wizard as you know them either.  I’m something else.  Different.”

Strange.  Weird.  Freak.  The list goes on.  He could hardly _wait_ to hear the Middle-Earth version of some of his favorite epithets.

“How so?”  Elrond probed, curious as to how honest he would be with him – and whether he would be able to know the difference given the little he’d learned through his visions.

“I’ll share, but.”  Harry arched a brow.  “Only in exchange for the information I seek in turn.”

Elrond gave a slow smile at that and nodded in agreement.

“Wizarding kind from my home were longer lived then normal men.”  Harry settled back into his chair, eyes distant as he walked a careful line between revealing information about his former world and information about _himself_ – two distinctly different things.  “But other than that, in many regards the two were similar.  There were still wars, still arrogance and pride.  That one could live two or three times as long meant little when it _also_ meant that you had that much more _time_ to hold a grudge or plan a civil war.”  He sighed, shaking his head.  “My generation was born in the waning years of one war and raised in the rise of another.  I spent more time in battle by the time I was considered an adult than any other of my generation as well.  When it came to my home, we were warriors and spies and anything we needed to be to survive.”

He debated a long moment and then added.

“A Dark Lord had marked me from birth.”  He revealed.  “None other ever survived him, let alone as long as I managed it before ending the conflict.”

“How long?”

“The first war against him lasted nearly two decades but it was a cold war – very little actual pitched battle.  The second…approximately eight years.  I killed him in open battle two months before my eighteenth year.  As a result of that battle…I have a bit of a problem with dying and staying dead, and my aging has slowed to a stop.”  He jerked a shoulder.  “That being the main reason I was sent to this world.  My old one wasn’t built for an immortal being.”

Elrond processed that for a long moment.  What he spoke of was unheard of, utterly at odds with his knowledge of things.  However, at the same time his words rang with truth along with an unconcealed apathy to his own plight that was at war with a very real rage.  If Elrond didn’t know better, couldn’t see behind the quiet mask, he would think Harry untouched by the words coming from his mouth, let alone his abrupt rending from his own world, his home despite everything that had happened there, and tossed here to fulfill some unknown purpose.

That there _was_ a purpose was patently obvious.

No other reason for the Valar to send him crashing into their world in the path of the rightful King of Gondor otherwise.

And if what Gandalf the Grey told him was also true, then a champion’s presence here, now, at this time and in this place might be a greater blessing to Middle Earth than even Elrond knew.

“When you say that you have a problem with dying, how to you mean?”

“Unaging, undying.”  Harry tilted his head to the side.  “I can’t be killed – not and stay dead.  I was told that my world could end – as it will eventually – and I would still go on.  Forever, along and without end.”

Elrond sucked in a shocked breath.

“Such a thing is nothing less than a curse to a Man.”  Elrond whispered, thinking all the while of Aragorn and their discussions of the long lives of the Elves, and their half-Man kin who were blessed with long lives…but in the end even Aragorn would pass away.

“It would have driven me insane eventually if I had stayed.”  Harry admitted blithely, not really bothered by that reality.  It was something he had come to terms with long ago.  “That was one of the main reasons I agreed to take a chance on this world.  The one I came from wasn’t made for a creature like me.  I’m an accident.  The result of events colliding in a cataclysm and meddling with the course of a prophecy.  I’m something that was never meant to be, Lord Elrond.”

Elrond gave Harry a soft smile, picking up one of his hands and giving it a firm, comforting squeeze.

“No creature as lovely and strong as you could ever be considered an accident or mistake.”  Elrond told his guest with genuine – and blatant – appreciation.  “As for your lifespan,” Elrond gave him a knowing grin.  “Elvish kind are immortal – in the unaging sense – as well.  Though we can be killed or die of grief, we will be reborn upon Valinor after a time.”

“Valinor?”  Harry asked, blushing despite himself at the compliment.

“You would know it – from what I understand – as the Undying Lands.”

…

Once he was done shocking Harry speechless with his revelation that his “reward” for being the Valar’s Champion would be a spot in Elvish-Heaven, Elrond agreed to show him the rooms where he’d be staying, postponing further discussion about himself and his new home for another time.

It was only once he left that Harry realized they’d been speaking a form of Elvish all that time.

Upon securing Harry’s agreement to attend dinner with himself and a few others – letting him know at the same time that he could leave his weapons in his room whenever he pleased and they would be undisturbed, Elrond left him to rest.

Harry studied the large rooms he’d been given, appreciating the open concept and airy layout of the three-room suite of sitting area, bedroom, and bath while at the same time cringing at how indefensible they were.  Granted, he hadn’t felt anything even vaguely resembling a threat except for a low-level tingle coming from the direction of Frodo’s room that had been pointed out on their way here.

But still…it was the principal of the thing.

Sighing over his inability to just _relax_ , he set his duster inside the large wardrobe that had a few other things already stocked that after a quick inspection seemed to be light silks and linens such as Lord Elrond had worn in his size.  He laughed a little at that.  If the Elves thought that they were going to get him to wear something so impractical while he was still a stranger in a strange world they were going to be in for a rude awakening.

He wasn’t going to take a chance on losing his armor – despite Elrond’s assurances – because he decided to play dress-up one day.

It was his leathers and Acromantula silks for him until he was _certain_ he could trust these people.  He knew better than anyone thanks to Tom and Albus just how a genial or beautiful face could hide a rotten core.  Elrond _appeared_ to be genuine, but even so, he was just one elf.

Albeit…the Lord of Rivendell…but a single elf in the scheme of things.

Carefully divesting himself of his arsenal, he set his weapons aside on the chest at the end of the plush-looking bed and his folio of pictures, spells, and random-information on the bedside table, secure in that being written in an utterly foreign language.  It should be safe enough.  Armed only with his sword, he drew himself a bath and made good use of the various strange if spiced-smelling toiletries provided.

Suddenly weary, he pulled his spelled-silk undergarments back on before concealing his sword and the rest of his clothes beside him on the bed.  With a dagger under his pillow, he allowed himself to heed his body’s needs and tumbled down into sleep.

…

Legolas, Prince of the Mirkwood Elves, stood upon the balcony of his temporary rooms in Rivendell as the sea-longing coursed through him.

He wasn’t certain _why_ Lord Elrond had sent for him under a pretense, but then…he wasn’t certain of much of anything these days.  Things were changing around him, there was a heaviness in the air of Middle Earth that was unsettling and which aggravated his sea-longing.  At roughly four thousand years old, he was neither old nor overly young for an Elf, his being afflicted with the sea-longing perhaps more a testament to his discontent than anything.

Mayhap if he’d some adventure to embark on, something more than hunting spiders and orcs in Mirkwood, it would not vex him so.

Mayhap if he’d found _them_ , his soulmate and spouse, he wouldn’t yearn to cross the sea and search them out there.

Mayhap, mayhap, mayhap.

A sudden raucous at the entrance to Rivendell caught his attention and he leaped up to balance with his elvish grace on the balcony rail for a better view.  His eyesight was exceptional, even for an elf, and he took full advantage of it as the studied the group arriving.

His old friend Estel, Aragorn, had made it home at last with his halfling charges in tow.  Legolas arched an elegant brow as he caught sight of a fifth member of his friend’s party before he was whisked off by Lord Elrond.

Elladan and Elrohir, two more he was glad to call friends, had told him not long after his arrival several days past of Lord Glorfindel’s ride with the halfling Frodo – and of the ebon-haired male who was more than a son of Men.  A male who stood watchful, weapon drawn, until Estel called him off.  A male who brewed a tonic hat helped hold the dark magic of the Morgul blade’s poison at bay.

Curiosity and whispers of him abound, with most wagering upon him being half-Elven or some mixture thereof, not unlike his three friends Estel, Elladan, and Elrohir.

Several things he was certain of, just from seeing him at a distance.

He was a warrior the blade at his hip and his other weapons were not toys nor mere ornaments.

He could – moreover _would_ – fight if need be.

He was also no elf, nor of Elvish blood, of that Legolas was certain.

Also…Lord Elrond respected him – and knew more of him than he was let on to his sons.

Last, while he was no elf…he had the beauty and grace of one.

…

Several hours after being left to rest, the lengthening shadows woke Harry from his deep sleep.  For a moment he thought he felt a familiar weight and smelled a familiar scent surrounding him with the sugar-and-dirt warmth of Teddy.  Damning his memory and the tricks it played, he reached out and caressed the face staring out at him with a mischievous look from the folio, having opened it to his portrait just before slipping down into sleep.

“I hope you’re right about this place, Siri.”  He whispered, running on finger over the turquoise hair of his now-lost godson.  “I hope you’re right.”

From nowhere he heard his memory call up his dogfather’s words, as if the old rogue were right there in Middle Earth.

“ _I know you do, Pup.  I know you do.”_

Blinking back tears, he climbed from the bed.  Gathering the essentials Harry went and splashed some water on his face before dressing back into his leathers with only his sword and a single dagger for armament.

Not that he needed more.

He may only have been using bladed weapons for around fifteen years now, but his magic was as heavy in his veins as it had ever been.

And while his wand had been bonded to the Sword…well.

There were more than a few spells he could do without it, let alone the raw magic he’d be able to conjure up in this wilder world.

Elrond can reassure him all he liked, until he _feels_ secure, he’ll continue carrying the Sword…thought the dagger would be a permanent addition.  He’s learned the hard way about being caught off-guard and unarmed, long before he knew how to use his – and the ambient – raw magic to save his hide in a scrape.

If those Nazgul were any indication, the evil of this world wasn’t anything to sneeze at.  He’d rather seem rude or ignorant than be wounded or captured because he catered to another’s sensibilities.

Harry’d never done so before, and he had no intention of beginning now.

He’d barely finished dressing and was debating bringing his duster or not, leaning towards _not_ , when someone knocked upon his door.

“Come in.”  He called as he closed the door to the wardrobe.  The duster would send the wrong message – especially in combination with his sword.  It wasn’t exactly friendly-dinner attire after all.

As the person entered he tucked the folio away in one of the expanded side pockets concealed in his pants.  A weapons pocket by design, but it could easily hold other things.  Such as a thin booklet with metal covers.

The knocker turned out to the be most beautiful female Harry had ever seen in his life – including Fleur and the other Veela.  Ivory skin, gorgeous eyes, and a long fall of silken dark hair, she had the elegant features and lithe frame – not to mention the _glow_ – that Harry had come to associate with elves…even if this was the first of their females he’d seen – or realized he’d seen, both male and female elves having such an otherworldly beauty to them at that time it was hard to discern one from the other.

Androgynous, his old world would have called it.

Labels aside, it didn’t make them any _less_ in his eyes, if anything they were _more_ for it.

“Lord Harry,” Arwen introduced herself to her father’s guest in the Common Tongue.  “I am Lord Elrond’s daughter, Arwen.  I have been asked to escort you to dinner.”

“Lady Arwen,” Harry smiled as he bowed an extended his hand, giving the Elvish maiden’s graceful hand a gallant kiss when it was offered.  A motion that was a bit stunted given that Harry had let go of one pretense, as Lord Elrond had already caught him out, and spoken in what his new knowledge dubbed _Sindarin_.  “Please, call me Harry.”

Startled at the stranger’s fluency in Sindarin but happy at the implied informality of being given usage of his given name, Arwen led the way through her father’s halls.  Between the two of them fell an easy silence, as there does between unthreatening companions who are pleased with each other’s company but feel no need to chatter and twitter or pry.

As they reached their destination, Harry commemorating the route to his mental map of Rivendell, Arwen paused outside the doors, a hand on Harry’s arm stopping him in his tracks.

“Harry,” Arwen began a bit haltingly, at first unsure whether she even wanted to ask.  “You travelled here with Aragorn?”

All at once, Harry was amused – and glad that he’d written off the race of Men in general and Aragorn in particular as the possible partner, or partners, Siri and Death implied might be found in this new world.  There was _no fucking way_ he stood a chance in romantic competition against this beautiful creature for a man’s affections.  Though he was more than a little tempted to try and steal her for his own.  As it was, he discovered all he needed to know about Arwen’s heart in that one faltering question.

He grinned, giving a slight nod, knowing what Arwen was likely to ask next – or at least the variation of a theme.

“How did you find him?”

And there it was.

“Worried.”  Harry answered without pause.  “Quiet, a little brusque, and grumpy.”  His grin edged a bit towards a smirk.  “Not quite sure what to make of someone such as me.  Focused.”  He smiled again at the Elven maid before giving another short bow and waving for Arwen to proceed him into the dining hall.  “In a hurry so that his feet could carry the rest of him to where his heart already resides if I’m any judge of lovesick men.”

“And are you?”  Arwen teased a bit with a flutter of lashes before gliding with renewed confidence into the dining hall.

Harry simply shook his head and rolled his eyes.

The more he saw of the trial of _love_ the more he questioned if he even _wanted_ such a foul disease to inflict him.

He did.

 _Oh_ , he did.

The only question that really remained was how many trials the Valar were going to put him through before he found and claimed it for himself.

But a small dining hall filled with immortal elves seemed a damn good place to start the hunt.

Lord Elrond, it seemed, was not entertaining all of his guests this night, Harry decided with a single glance.  Not enough bodies to account for the level of activity in the city.  Just a select company, likely leaving his children to entertain the others.

Present was, naturally, Lord Elrond and Harry himself, along with the few others Elrond introduced after Arwen left him in her father’s care and glided away to – likely – see to her own company for the meal.

“Harry,” Elrond greeted him gladly with only a small rueful smile over his weapons and attire.  One thing he’d learned well from his glimpse into the immortal being’s past was not to push him…too much at least.  Such things never ended well.

“Elrond.”  Harry’s eyes laughed up at him good-naturedly, having caught the flicker of expression as it crossed his face after spying his sword.

“Come,” Elrond entwined their arms, towering a bit over the smaller man.  “You must be introduced.  Estel you already know as Aragorn, yes?”  He motioned to his foster son, seated across from the empty chairs they had come to a stop behind.

Harry smiled and gave the man a genial nod, much more comfortable with him now that he’d met Arwen.

“To my right are Lords Erestor and Glorfindel, the latter of which you have also already met.”

After greeting Lord Erestor with another smile and nod, though more courteous and less friendly than Aragorn’s, he warmed up considerably for Lord Glorfindel.

“My lord.”  Harry flashed one of his charming grins ala Siri.  “It’s good to see you again under happier circumstances.”

“And you, Lord Harry.”  Glorfindel returned his smile with a bright one of his own, just as pleased with the vision the ebon-haired creature made in Elrond’s hall as he had post-battle in a dark forest.  “I see you left your crossbow elsewhere.”

“But not my sword.”  He bantered back.  “One never knows when a strange, but pretty, Elf might come thundering out of the trees.”

Those aware of their first meeting laughed then filled in the others – namely Aragorn and Glorfindel telling the story of Harry holding the latter at quarrel-point upon first meeting.

When the laughter died down, Elrond continued.

“Gandalf the Grey is between Lord Glorfindel and Estel.”

Harry arched a brow at the bearded wizard that could have jumped out of a picture of the Merlinic age, giving him a slow nod.

There was no question Gandalf was a wizard – he would know it even without the stories from Merry and Pippin on their trek to Rivendell.

Power _danced_ around the elder.

Which, given the white brows that had darts towards a grey hairline before settling back down in a split-second motion of surprise, made Harry curious about how _he_ appeared to Gandalf.

And, how much Gandalf would _share_ with others – such as Lord Elrond – about what he saw.

“To your left you have one of my twin sons, Elrohir.”  Elrond motioned as he pulled out Harry’s seat, courtly as ever towards the wounded warrior that would get little enough peace given the finding of the Ring.  “And lastly we have Prince Legolas of Mirkwood.”  Elrond nodded politely to the archer.

Harry nearly swallowed his tongue at the sight of them.

Glorfindel was, well, _glorious_ as his name implied in English and as golden-haired as its meaning in Sindarin.

Added to the just-as-blond (but…younger, maybe?) elf across from him, and the dark-haired drink of water next to Harry, and Harry thought he could be excused for the sudden bout of shyness as he realized just _how much_ potential there was in this new world for him to get himself cock-deep in trouble.

Since, _apparently_ , there was no such thing as a _plain_ let alone ugly Elf.

Still, a lifetime of caution – and a lot of hard-won control – dimmed his response and limited to only a widening of his eyes and the dilation of his pupils to give away his distraction.

Though, knowing his luck, elves would have advanced _smell_ as well as sight and all of them _knew_ what had caught him off-guard.

Reigning himself in, Harry have them – Elrohir and Legolas – the brightest smile yet, knowing that only a moment had passed even if it felt like a lifetime to him.

Little did he know that he wasn’t the _only_ one struck dumb by their introduction – or reintroduction as the case may be.

Harry was more right than he knew, he _did_ carry an aura of power the way Gandalf did.

But where Gandalf’s was as stead as a flowing stream sparking under the noon sun, Harry’s was _wild_ and a bit dark, like the promise of a bloody battle for dominance tangled amidst silken bedsheets.

Intoxicating – in more than one way – to a group of elves that had only ever dealt with less than a handful of true magical people in all their long lives.

Elrond wasn’t affected – and he would never be – by Harry’s aura, being a bonded, if temporarily separated by the sea, elf and husband and father.

Likewise, Erestor had bonded long ago and no longer felt the pull to others, while Gandalf was aged beyond such things and Aragorn – though susceptible as any to a pretty face and fine form – was completely and fully taken by heart, body, and soul by Arwen though they’d yet to bond or wed, and as a Dúnedain did not have enough elvish blood to be affected fully by Harry’s magical _pull_ on possible suitors.

Or the female equivalent of suitors for the matter, as Harry like many magicals didn’t discriminate based on gender, a trait he shared with the elves and their kin, though Men and Dwarves alike did not share such free-thinking though same-sex matches still occurred.

As for Hobbits…well.

Squabbling over gender was something that took entirely too much effort and had little bounty to be gained for it, so it was of little matter to them.

Granted, it wasn’t _only_ his magical power that drew them.

The rich black hair, bold jewel-green eyes, and aristocratic features didn’t hurt things either.

“I’m afraid I’m new to this land.”  Harry said with a – admittedly – _flirty_ tilt of his head several minutes later after they’d started in on the meal and small talk.  After days and days of rough fare and game, he found the elvish diet that was heavy on fresh produce a nice switch.  “I’m not quite certain how forms of address work in Middle-Earth.”

Sensing a prime moment for some teasing and mischief, Elrohir jumped on the gambit offered.

“As we’re all on good terms, I would think our givens names will suffice.”  He said, his tone sly.  “Except, of course, for _Prince_ Legolas.”

Rolling his eyes at his son’s teasing, Elrond set him down nicely before the whole evening devolved into banter.

“As _Lord_ ,” he arched a scolding brow at his younger, if by minutes, son.  “Harry is a Champion of the Valar, he can call us – or anyone for that matter – whatever he pleases.”

“A Champion?”  Glorfindel’s eyes lit up.  Thranduil was the only elf to take the title of “King” – he always had been prone to airs – and burdened his son with a title to tease over.  A Champion on the other hand… _that_ was a station that was _earned_.  As Glorfindel had earned his upon giving his life to slay a Balrog, only to be re-embodied by the Valar and returned to Middle-Earth.

Closing his eyes with a silent sigh, Harry gave a slow side-ways nod in acknowledgement.

“Harry has come a great distance to assist with the gathering darkness.”  Elrond supplied when it seemed Harry would not.  Which was in-character from what he’d seen of the young Lord thus far.

‘Just Harry’ indeed.

“Assist how?”  Erestor gave Lord Harry a searching look, taking in the obvious answer of his sword but intuiting that there was much _more_ to the strange Champion than martial skills.  “For that matter, who _is_ he?”

“He,” Harry chided drily.  “Can speak for himself.”

Lord Elrond nodded in agreement at Harry’s questioning look, ceding his right to speak of himself to some of Elrond’s closest advisors.

“As Lord Elrond said – I have come a long way to help in the days ahead, though just _how_ and what challenges those days will bring remains to be seen.  As for who I am…”  He trailed off, then pushed away from the table as a fresh wave of grief threatened to undo him before this company.  “I shall leave that explanation in Lord Elrond’s hands for the moment.”

He couldn’t speak of it, not now.

Not and keep _something_ back.

Despite his previous irritation, a supplied-by-another explanation was safer than anything he could – or would – give.

With a nod for his host, Harry strode from the room, his past nipping at his heels and nearly smothering his aura in grief.

The company watched it all in silence – and with varying responses though most learned at least _some_ of his character from his appearance and hasty exit.

Legolas was intrigued by the puzzle Harry presented, Estel let another piece click into place, Elrohir ad Glorfindel becoming a bit more enchanted, while Erestor agitated by his abrupt departure, and Gandalf soaking it all in like a sponge.

“What I am about to impart goes no further than this room, am I clear?”  Elrond commanded with a wave of his hand and a flash of his ring, granting them privacy even in the midst of the gathered elves.

“As you know, Lord Harry is a Champion of the Valar,” Elrond continued.  “I saw his arrival near Weathertop in a vision alongside Lady Galadriel.  Together we watched him step forth from a shining portal into this world and head at once to assist Mr. Baggins against the Nazgul.  His assistance and sword will no doubt be of great value in the coming days.”

“How do we _know_ he was sent from the Valar?”  Cautious as always, Erestor posed the question.

“I was made privy to other things during my vision of Lord Harry.”  Elrond spoke slowly, brow furrowed a bit.  “Events and choices and scenes which made his skills, ability, and character clear to my eyes.  Private instances which I will not divulge.”  He stopped them before they could ask.  “That vision along with what I have learned from Harry himself leads me to believe him trustworthy.  Moreover, I intend to give him a place on the Council I have called.”

This last more than anything else drove home his confidence in Harry, as not even Elrond’s children were to be present at the secret council.

“If you wish to know more.”  Elrond cut his gaze between the others.  “I suggest you ask him yourselves.”

…

 


	4. One Rule

** Silence and the Soul **

_“No one ever told me that grief felt so like fear.”  
―  **C.S. Lewis** ,  **A Grief Observed**_

**Four: One Rule**

Leaving the feast when the time came it was acceptable to do so and would cause no offense to his host, Legolas retrieved his bow and quiver from his suite of rooms, that of a visiting prince, before heading to the gardens.  Letting his senses guide him he found himself soon coming up behind fierce Harry as he rested beneath an apple tree in Lord Elrond’s favored garden.  His intensely green eyes were closed as his head lay still against the trunk behind him.

Looking up he spotted a ripe golden apple dangling from a high branch above Harry’s open palms that were idle in his repose, laying calm in his lap.  Before Legolas could second-guess himself, he notched and loosed an arrow that severed the stem of apple from branch, sending it plummeting into Harry’s hands.  Without so much as opening his eyes or batting an eyelash, the strange champion caught it still in mid-fall, one hand snapping high and snagging it, then polished it on one leather-clad thigh before taking a hefty bite.

Opening his eyes, he smiled at his watcher as Legolas settled his bow into place on his back.

“You were not startled.”  Legolas observed as he leapt with graceful ease from the ledge he’d been perched upon observing the garden to the soft clover below, tilting his head a bit to one side upon landing as he studied the stranger.

“I knew you were there.”  Harry answered in a non-answer, then supplied a bit more after taking another bite of the luscious apple so enterprisingly supplied by the pale-haired elven prince.  “I heard your steps.”

Another bite.

“And you notch an arrow.”

Another.

“I sensed when you drew back the string.”

And another.

“I heard the arrow fly high above my head.”

One last bit, then Harry tossed the core away into the shrubbery for an animal as equally enterprising as the elven prince to find and feast upon in turn.

“Catching the apple was easy,” Harry told him.  “I all I to do was let it fall.”

Harry met Legolas’s gaze with his own, determined not to let either in his temper or libido get the better of him as the lithe, handsome prince of Mirkwood padded closer to his side as elegant and quiet as a cat.

“And if I had been aiming elsewhere?”  Legolas asked, taking in Harry’s unruffled countenance, a striking contrast to earlier.

“I might have caught the arrow just as easily.”  He smirked, then sent an invisible pulse of magic up the tree through where the skin at the back of his neck still touched the bark.  “Or maybe not, we’ll never know now will we?”  His hand flew up once more, snagging the apple that his magic had severed from another branch with permission from the tree, polishing it before offering it to his audience.  “Apple?”

With a laugh, Legolas declined, even as he puzzled over how the apple fell in the first place.

“Keep it.”  He smiled at the calm – and no longer grief-stricken – Harry.  “I merely was concerned as you left the table quite early.  I thought you might yet be hungry, now that your mind has calmed.”

Harry laughed a bit at that then rose and began to stroll once more through Lord Elrond’s gardens, Legolas keeping him company as he playfully tossed the apple in the air and caught it with every few steps.

“I tend to watch my temper and school my thoughts better than that.”  He admitted.  Well, _now_ , at least.  “It’s been a stressful few… _years_.  My control isn’t what it should be.”

“The Nazgul?”  Legolas guessed, eyes trained upon Harry’s lovely face catching the swift flash of pain and grief before he could hide it once more.

“No.”  Was all Harry allowed.  “It started well before that.”

Seeing his distress, Legolas changed the subject for one that will – with luck – draw him back from his once-again darkening thoughts.

Such beautiful jewel-green eyes shouldn’t be ever-choked and dark with pain.

“Lord Elrond informed us,” he said as Harry started playing with the apple once again.  “Under vows of secrecy that you are a Champion of the Valar.”

“Yes.”  Harry sighed before taking a bite out of the apple at last, his appetite returning once more in the wake of his handsome, and interesting though curious-as-a-cat, company.  “I suppose that’s true.”

“He also said that anything else we wish to know we would have to discover personally.”

Thank god, or well, he guessed the Valar now, for small favors.  Having his champion-ness batted around was bad enough, even with oaths involved.  Somehow many of these people didn’t come off as very open-minded.  The last thing he needed was his entire history – including his once housing a shard of an evil soul – bandied around Rivendell.

“What would you like to know?”  Harry asked, tone neutral but not wary.  “I will answer what I can but for all intents and purposes you _are_ still a stranger to me, Prince Legolas of Mirkwood.  There is quite a bit I won’t be ready – or even able – at this point to share.”

He liked him.

But that isn’t enough to suddenly turn him into mister sharing-is-caring after spending so many years where secrets kept him alive or in turn would have him running to his own death depending on the situation.

He’d have to remember to ask Elrond about the important elves or other people he’d be seeing next time they spoke.  As much as Harry trusted his instincts, having background information, _context_ , was often the key between being blindsided and prepared.  Things could always take a turn for the worst.  The problem was, in his new home, Harry didn’t have much idea of what the worst could even entail.

…

Before he could enter the privacy of his rooms, Legolas was hailed by none other than the Lord of Rivendell himself.  Greeting him politely, Legolas waited to see what need Lord Elrond had of him.

“Prince Legolas,” Elrond nodded in greeting.  He wanted to finish one _last_ duty before seeking out Harry.  They badly needed to finish their discussion if the faux pas at dinner – all around – were any sign.  “I had noticed at dinner that yourself as well as others seem to have _interest_ in Lord Harry.”

Glancing around, Legolas ushered Elrond into his rooms, sure that whatever came next wasn’t suitable for any other possible ears.

“As you say.”  Legolas held himself very still, a bit displeased – just a little – that both light-hearted Elrohir and infamous Glorfindel had been as intrigued as Legolas himself was.  And if Elrohir was interested, then Elladan would not be far behind him.  Though why it mattered to him at all he wasn’t certain, unfamiliar with this feeling and yet finding it all too familiar.

Certain ghosts of past decisions and mistakes should remain in the past.

He wasn’t that callow, jealous fool anymore, the Battle of the Five Armies and his time with the Rangers had cured him of that…though he might never find it in him to actually _like_ a dwarf.

Elrond restrained himself from rolling his eyes, having had this conversation already with both his sons and getting near the same reaction.  Glorfindel was both mature and experienced enough to control himself, even with the aura Harry barely contained around the eligible elves.  The younger ones…not so much.  The Mirkwood Prince may have pleased Harry for a moment with his golden looks, but Elrond held out hope that the Valar’s chosen Champion might yet cast his gaze upon one of his sons.  He was a strong and unique creature, one well worthy of the love his sons had to give, and as Lady Galadriel had said herself, one deserving of peace long denied him.  Harry would be a credit to any Elven House…or perhaps more than one.

He wasn’t certain of the practices of the world Harry hailed from, but knew he had seen at least one instance of a triad among the insights he’d been given to Harry’s world.

It was possible Lord Harry was one of the rare souls who needed more than one mate to fulfill them.

Only time, and Harry himself, would tell.

“As I was blessed with knowledge of some of Harry’s life before coming to Rivendell, I see myself as a protector or mentor of sorts for the young champion as he begins his new life here.  As such, in the event that he finds an Elf – or more than one – pleasing and he or they in turn decide to pay him court, I find it…natural to inform said Elf or Elves that a certain barrier to their potential union does not exist except in assumptions and supposition.”

“Barrier?”  Legolas arched a brow.

“Are your intentions, if any, honorable towards Lord Harry?”

“He…fascinates me.”  Legolas admitted after a long, heavy moment of silence.  “I have never met another like him.”

“Nor will you.”  Elrond harrumphed.  “He is unique in all our world.  A rare gem smuggled to Rivendell and set amongst the Elves for a singular reason and purpose.”

“Purpose?”  Legolas felt as if Elrond had turned into Mithrandir, speaking in riddles and half-words.

“Intentions?”  Elrond shot back, finding himself more entertained by his role of protector than he thought he would be.  Estel being his foster-son had sucked all the fun out of the role with his Arwen.

“To know him, if he will allow me.”  Legolas chose his words with care.  “And to see what grows from there.”

Elrond nodded, impressed despite himself with the answer.

“Harry is immortal.  Truly immortal.”  He imparted.  “For all that his features and his past speak of wizards and the race of Men, his very being and future belongs among the race of Elves and the Undying Lands.”

Harry was the one son of Men in all their world an Elf could love without fear of losing him to an inevitable death.

…

Legolas bid Lord Elrond good evening as he thought on what Elrond had shared, fitting it alongside the other pieces of information he’d gathered about Harry thus far.

He was beautiful, especially for a Man, a headstrong fiery beauty, the like of which he’d never before and by Harry’s own admission likely never would meet again.

Lord Elrond called him unique, comparing him to a rare jewel.

Estel didn’t know _what_ to make of him and his strange ways other than that he had a natural kindness and dealt with the Hobbits and danger with equal calm.  His old friend also told him that he moved with predatory grace, something which Legolas had come to notice for himself in the gardens.

Glorfindel found him fierce, Erestor abrupt.

Mithrandir had yet to speak of Harry at all, like Legolas keeping to his own council regarding the newest champion.

And while Legolas was sure they would prove fonts of knowledge, Legolas wasn’t on terms as of yet with these hobbits that would allow him to seek them out for access to said knowledge.

“What a mystery you are, my lord of the Black.”

…

While Legolas puzzled over him, the man himself was picking Lord Elrond’s brain in search of knowledge of his own.

“You mean dwarves are real here?”  Harry asked to confirm with a laugh as they sat before a warm fire in his sitting room, the two of them enjoying as simple game of cards that Harry had quickly taught the elven lord as they traded information.  Dwarfism was found in Harry’s home world, but dwarves as a species were not.

“Very real.”  Elrond smiled as he played a card.  “As are goblins, orcs, trolls, and many other creatures.”

Harry nodded thoughtfully, studying his hand.  If dwarves were different, then goblins and other creatures might be as well.  Just because they bore the same title didn’t make them the same thing.  You could call an elephant and a tiger the same thing but it didn’t make it true after all.

“What can you tell me about the darkness I’ve felt?”

“Servants of Sauron…”  Elrond went on to explain all about the rings of power, Sauron, and Mordor, including the events of now some sixty or so years past at Erebor.  At last Harry got an explanation about the Nazgul and their leader the Witch-King of Angmar who stabbed Frodo.  Well, other than them being shades of some measure which he already knew for himself.

They sat up long into the night, drinking honeyed elven wine, warmed by the fire and comfortable with each other’s company, exchanging information and stories alike.

Harry enlightened Elrond a bit about his world and his magic, as Elrond in turn schooled him on the ways of Elves, Dwarves, and Men of Middle Earth as he was about to meet in council with some of each in the coming days.  Only Hobbits were overlooked as he’d already been well-versed in their quirks and foibles by Pippin, Merry, and quiet Sam.

Yet, for all their ease with each other, he couldn’t quite bring himself to speak of Legolas or Glorfindel, or any of the other elves whose eyes he’d felt watching him and whom he’d spent time watching in turn.

…

The next morn after breaking his fast with Lord Elrond and his three children – four if one included his foster son Estel/Aragorn – Harry found himself pausing with a frown outside one of the many guest rooms in Rivendell.  Uncertain, he cast one last glance at his escort: the elder twin Elladan.

“Go on.”  He encouraged the shy champion, having no doubt himself that the room’s occupant would be most gladdened to see Harry.  After all, what male with eyes in his head would not be?  “You’ve been asked after.”

Mentally preparing himself, Harry gave one last quiet sigh before entering after a perfunctory knock and bidding call from the interior.

Peeking his head in the doorway, he saw his goal propped up against many pure-white pillows with Gandalf the Grey and a much older hobbit keeping him company.

“Lord Harry.”  Gandalf greeted him warmly.  While he has his share of concerns regarding Harry’s sudden appearance in the middle of this muddled mess, Harry _had_ helped save his young hobbit friend.  An action which gained Harry time to earn Gandalf’s acceptance and trust if not his outright friendship.

At Gandalf’s words, Bilbo and Frodo turned towards the door, both having been regaled by both Glorfindel’s description of the young wanderer who had helped save Frodo in addition to the other hobbits’ and Aragorn’s versions of events.  All of which were helpful indeed to Frodo as his memories after being stabbed by the Witch-King’s blade were rather clouded.  To say the least.

He’d thought the strange being who’d appeared and come to his aid was a figment of his imagination.  A fever dream at best.

Gandalf moved over to Harry and ushered him inside, sending the hovering Elladan on his way with a single look.

“Lord Harry,” Gandalf offered him a chair at the bedside with the utmost courtesy as he formally introduced him to his companions.  “This is Bilbo Baggins and his nephew who you have previously encountered, one Frodo Baggins of the Shire.  Bilbo, Frodo, this is Lord Harry of Black.”

“Milord.”  Bilbo’s voice quavered with emotion and age.  “Thank you for coming to my nephew’s aid.  We are most in your debt.”

“It was nothing.”  Harry smiled at the elderly hobbit before turning his attention to the watchful Frodo where he was propped up in bed.  Seeing him properly for the first time, Harry sensed in him a deep _goodness_ with a bit of a playful, adventurous spirit that reminded him – too much almost – of Moony.  “Hello, Frodo.”  He said, watching him for a moment longer.  “You’re looking a great deal better than the last time I saw you.”  He teased, flashing a grin.

One Frodo returned, appreciating the moment of levity.

“I’m still here.”  He shrugged with only a minor wince as his shoulder jarred.  “Still alive, thanks to you.”

“Not just me,” Harry waved that off.  “What little I did wouldn’t have mattered a bit without Aragorn’s torches, Glorfindel’s horse, or Elrond’s healing.”  His green eyes nearly twinkled at the bed-bound hobbit.  “It seems keeping you and your pretty blue eyes alive requires a group effort.”

Gandalf and Bilbo both let out guffaws as Frodo’s cheeks heated with a bright red blush.

Showing excellent timing to save their friend from further teasing, Merry, Sam, and Pippin all rushed into the room, greeting Harry with joyful smiles and rescuing Frodo from more attempts at making him blush.  After everyone had calmed down – and the hobbits and Harry had snacks, Harry’s stomach letting him know that it wasn’t happy about his current return to bad old habits – Frodo brought the conversation back around.

“I wasn’t thanking you for the tonic, though that was a wonderful help according to the others and Lord Elrond.”  Frodo studied the not-quite-Man out of serious eyes while the rest paid careful attention to their words.  “I was helpless against _them_.  I, we,” he motioned to the other younger hobbits.  “Don’t know how to fight, not _really_.  We don’t have magic.  You fought them.  You _hurt_ them.”  His tone was nothing less than marveling.  “I don’t remember much from Weathertop, but I remember that.”

Merry, Pippin, and Sam all nodded in agreement.  He’d shown Sam a few things with the sword Strider found for him but still none of them have ever been fighters, as Frodo said.  Not like Harry or Strider or even Bilbo in his youth when he went adventuring with Gandalf.

“Now _that_ really was nothing, Frodo.”  Harry told him gently, sharing a glance with Gandalf.  “I’m a fighter and a killer – true enough.  It’s what I was born to do.  More times than I would ever want to count however, I’ve been too slow or weak or just plain _stupid_ to save the person or people I was trying to help.  This time, _your_ time, I had a good day and was able to fight who needed fighting and save who needed saving.”  Harry shook his head.  “That’s all.”

“Will you teach me?”  Frodo asked a moment later, letting that sink in, his voice gaining strength with the thought.

“Us.”  Merry chimed in, nudging Pippin’s shoulder which had Pip restraining himself to frenzied head-nodding instead of chiming in himself.

“Us.”  Frodo agreed as he pinned Harry with – as Harry himself had noted – his pretty blue eyes.  “When I’m better, will you teach us?”

 _Oh no._   Harry thought helplessly, thoughts flashing back to lessons given in the cover of a hidden room or the bright backyard of the Burrow, to all the kids he’d trained during and after the war – many of whom he’d lost, Teddy among them.  _Not this.  Not again_.

Harry trained his stricken glance on Gandalf, furious that events have led to such cheerful, happy, and just plain _good_ creatures wanting to learn his skills – well, those that could be taught to a non-magical at any rate.

“When you’re better,” Harry gave in with a sigh at the serious and somehow _knowing_ gaze of Gandalf the Grey.  “As long as I’m still around I’ll teach you how to protect yourselves.  No more.  I won’t train you to be a killer.”

He just won’t.

Not after what had been done to him all his childhood and schooling years.

Never again, not to someone else, their actual age aside.

When it looked as if Pippin would object to that stricture, if only for the sake of objecting, Gandalf silenced them all with a stern look.

“That is more than generous, Lord Potter-Black.”  Gandalf told him, climbing to his feet.  “Why don’t we leave these hobbits to their business if you would be so kind as to walk an old man to his chambers?”

Before the hobbits realized what was happening, Gandalf and Harry were well out the door and on their way.

“Thanks for the rescue.”  Harry said, rolling his neck on his shoulders as he stuffed his hands in his trouser pockets, having once again left off his outer duster.

“It was the least I could do.”  Gandalf replied with a smile as he steered them flawlessly through the corridors.

They kept up a light conversation mainly centered around what being a wizard is like in Middle-Earth until the sound of ringing steel drew Harry’s attention.  As they came around a corner they found themselves on a balcony overlooking the training yards where currently Aragorn was taking on one of his foster brothers – Harry couldn’t tell the twins apart as of yet – as the rest of Lord Elrond’s warrior-inclined elves in Rivendell watched and made bets and jokes from the sidelines.  Elrond was also watching along with his daughter and Erestor from another balcony that Harry spied, while Legolas and Glorfindel were down in the yard as well.

Looking up in a chiding-but-playful manner at Gandalf, Harry caught the knowing twinkle of mischief in his blue eyes.

“The Valar brought you here for a reason.”  His voice was nearly a laugh as he thought on what was likely to come of Harry stepping into the yard.  “Why don’t you do show them all what that might be?”

Smelling a set-up between Gandalf and Elrond but willing to go along with it for the sake of a tension-draining fight, Harry nodded and smiled just as Aragorn finished pummeling Elrohir.

“Anyone else?”  Aragorn challenged as he caught his breath.  It was always a challenged when the twins took him on, but it was one he relished.  He was the best swordsman of Men for a reason, and the sheer speed of the elves was a nice change from the style of his Dunédain.  He’d been taught by elves, knew their style of sword nearly as well as he knew his own face, but even so knew he was outmatched by their best fighters most of the time – fighters which included his foster-brothers, foster-father, and Lord Glorfindel most assuredly.  Even so, he _was_ a match for the regular elf.  “No challengers?”  He nearly scoffed.

“I’ll take you on.”  Harry called out from his spot balanced on the railing as chatter broke out among the Elves, few believing what they were hearing.

For his part, Legolas was equally concerned and curious.  By his own admission, Harry was a killer.  But that could mean many things.  However, having seen his reflexes in the orchard the night before, he wouldn’t be surprised if he gave Estel quite the challenge.

Flipping off the railing he landed perfectly in a crouch just inside the ring.  Aragorn simply watched as he shed his scabbard, hanging it on a nearby post before unsheathing the sword, his easy demeanor slipping off his face and form as easily as the sword-belt had from his hips.  Leaving something else behind.  Something predatory.

A palpable sense of awe and surprise rippled through the watching crowd, including Aragorn, as they all caught sight of the first _good_ look at the blade in gleaming silver with the faint edge of poison green, even as Harry spoke some _words_ in a strange tongue and tapped the blade, a shimmering light surrounding it before fading away.

“It’s poisoned.”  Harry told Aragorn.  “On my honor all I case was a spell to protect you from the venom embedded in the blade.”

Aragorn nodded, eyes wary and thoughtful, as they both moved to take up positions opposite one another.

“Ada, are you not going to stop this?”  Arwen demanded of her father, seriously worried that the weary Harry could be harmed or that the spell protecting Aragorn from the sword edge might falter.

“Just wait and watch.”  He commanded, recognizing Harry’s smooth gait and utter confidence from his vision.

Harry’s main weapon for a great deal of his life might have been magic, but he’d grown up and survived without it, giving him reflexes that were as good as any elf, and he’d won more than one battle with a sword over a wand.

He stalked toward the waiting Aragorn, shielding spell over the blade in place, as he let the Vanquisher come out to play.

“Terms?”  Aragorn asked as he approached, sword held in a relaxed-but-firm grip in one hand.  He didn’t know which was more distracting for their audience – the enviable weapon or the palpable aura of power that rose from gold-dusted skin, an aura strong enough that even one with only the barest of elven blood can feel it such as Aragorn.

“Yield or Lord Elrond calls a halt.”  Harry spoke with a voice that was soft but carrying so that all could hear him.

“Rules?”  Aragorn checked, flexing his hand around his sword.

Harry gave a sparkling laugh.

“I have ever fought with only one rule, Aragorn.”  He said as they began to circle one another warily.

Aragorn arched a brow at that as their swords met in a raucous clang above their heads, bringing their faces – and Harry’s deathly cold green eyes – close together.

“Don’t die.”  Harry hissed as they began to fight in earnest.

…

 


	5. Announcement - Not An Update

I've decided to retcon this fic.

 

I'm going to leave this portion as-is but tomorrow I will make it as part of a series with the new version being the second series installment.

 

My reason is simple: I want to have Harry enter Middle Earth at the beginning of  _The Hobbit_ instead of the beginning of  _The Fellowship of the Ring_.

 

Sorry if this upsets anyone but now that I have a better understanding of  _The Hobbit_ instead of just the Lord of the Rings series I think it makes a lot more sense to have Harry show up at the real beginning of the war for Middle Earth than a quarter of the way into it.

 

~Sif


	6. New Version Posted

Chapter One of the new version of this story called "Broken Blade" has now been posted!

 

Find it here:

<https://archiveofourown.org/works/16907016>

 

 


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